^v 


$1200  A  YEAR 

A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts 

BY 
EDNA   FERBER 

AND 

NEWMAN  LEVY 


The  line  drawings  by  Newman  Levy  which 
appear  in  this  volume  are  included  not  as  an 
artistic  expression,  but  because  they  seemed 
to  add  to  the  joy  of  the  piece,  having  been 
made,  as  Mr.  Levy  says,  "in  moments  of 
desperation,  between  puMs  at  my  pipe,  vrhea 
the  darned  old  dialogue  wouldn't  budge! " 


GARDEN   CITY  NEW   YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1920 


V 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING   THAT   OF  TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


AY 

F¥<;  Tg. 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 


PAUL  STODDARD,  Professor  of  Economics 

JEAN  STODDARD,  his  wife 

HENRY  ADAMS  WINTHROP,  Professor  of  Greek 

FRANCES  WINTHROP,  his  daughter 

CYRUS  McCLURE,  a  mill  owner 

STEVEN  McCmRE,  his  son 

CHRIS  ZSUPNIK,  a  mill  hand 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK,  his  wife 

TONY  ZSUPNIK,  his  daughter 

MARTHA,  a  servant 

A.  STARR  PUTNAM,  Professor  of  English  Literature 

EMILY  PUTNAM,  his  wife 

HOWARD  SNELL,  Assistant  Professor  of  Chemistry 

MILLY  FANNING,  his  fiancee 

VERNON  SALSBURY,  Professor  of  Biology 

OTTO  KRAJIIK       )    ,....,, 

,,  [   Mill  hands 

LOUIS  POLINSKI      ) 

Gus,  a  janitor 

SLOTKIN,  a  tailor 

CLEVELAND  WELCH,  of  the  Mastodon  Art-Film  Co. 


439J.23 


Act     I.    The  Stoddards'   flat  on   College  Hill, 
Dinsmore  University. 

Late  afternoon. 

Act   II.     The  Stoddards'  flat  in  the  mill  district. 
Six  months  later. 

Saturday  afternoon. 

Act  III.    Scene  1.    Library  of  Cyrus  McClure's 
on  the  Hill. 

Saturday  night. 

Scene  2.    The  Stoddards'  flat. 
Sunday  morning. 

Time         The  present. 

The  scene  of  the  play  is  laid  in  Wickley,  Pennsyl 
vania,  a  mill  town. 


$1200  A  YEAR 
ACT  I 


SuoTiCtr/ 


ACT  I 

SCENE  I :  Living  room  in  the  Stoddard  flat,  College 
Hill,  a  residential  section  adjoining  the  campus 
of  Dinsmore  University,  Wickley,  Pennsylvania. 
The  family  consists  of  PAUL  STODDARD,  instructor 
in  Economics  at  the  University,  and  his  wife, 
JEAN.  They  have  been  married  three  years,  during 
which  time  STODDARD'S  salary  has  been  twelve 
hundred  a  year. 

The  apartment  consists  of  a  living  room,  bed 
room,  and  kitchen.  The  living  room  is  furnished 
shabbily  with  furniture  reminiscent  of  his  bachelor 
days  together  with  a  few  more  recent  acquisitions. 
At  right,  against  the  wall,  is  one  of  those  cheap, 
golden-oak,  upright  pianos  which  she  hates.  At 
the  back  are  low  bookshelves  fairly  well  filled. 
The  most  conspicuous  object  in  the  room  is  a  por 
trait  hanging  above  the  bookcases.  It  is  the  por 
trait  of  GOVERNOR  GAMALIEL  WINTHROP,  one  of 
the  early  governors  of  Massachusetts.  He  is 
dressed  in  the  Puritan  costume  and  is  of  a  stern 
and  rock-bound  countenance.  He  belongs  to 
JEAN'S  side  of  the  family  and,  as  Daisy  Ashford 

3 


$1200  A  YEAR 


says,'  "looks  a  thorough  ancestor."  Everything 
else  in  the  room  bespeaks  shabby  gentility  and 
heart-breaking  economy. 

At  the  left,  back,  is  a  table  laid  for  dinner. 
There  are  ten  places,  though  there  are  only  nine 
chairs,  six  straight-backed  rather  cheap-looking 
dining  room  chairs;  one  kitchen  chair  painted 
white;  one  bedroom  chair;  one  piano  stool,  golden- 
oak  to  match  the  piano.  It  is  at  the  end  of  the 
table  facing  the  audience. 

As  the  curtain  rises  the  stage  is  empty.  A  bell 
rings.  After  a  brief  interval  it  rings  again. 
JEAN  STODDARD'S  voice  is  heard  from  bedroom. 

JEAN.    Martha!    Oh,  Martha! 

MARTHA  [voice  from  kitchen].    Yes! 

JEAN.     The  bell  rang. 

MARTHA.    I  heard  it.    My  hands  is  in  the  dough. 

JEAN.  But  I'm  not  dressed.  [The  bell  rings 
again,  a  long  ring.] 

MARTHA  [very  cross].  Oh,  all  right,  all  right. 
[MARTHA  enters  from  kitchen,  wiping  her 
floury  hands  on  her  apron — crosses  to 
door,  muttering  as  she  goes.  She  is  an  ample, 
middle-aged  woman  not  quite  so  good- 
natured  as  she  looks.  For  years  she  has 
worked  as  general  utility  woman  for  the 
wives  of  various  members  of  the  college 


$1300  A  YEAR  5 

faculty,  from   the   president   down.     She 
knows  more  about  their  social,  economic,  and 
private  affairs  than  any  one  connected  with 
the  university.     MARTHA  opens  the  door. 
Gus,  the  janitor,  enters.     He  looks  like  a 
janitor.     He  is  carrying  a  highly  ornate 
gilt-and-brocade  chair. 
Gus.    How's  this? 
MARTHA.     Kind  of  fancy,  ain't  it? 
Gus.     All  our  chairs  is  fancy. 
JEAN  [from  bedroom,  off].     Martha,  is  that  the 
janitor  with  the  chair? 
MARTHA.    Yes'm. 
Gus.     Where'd  you  want  it? 
MARTHA    [points  to  vacant  place  at  table].    Over 
there.     Looks    awful   messy — all    them    diff'rent 
kinds  of  chairs. 

[Enter  JEAN  STODDARD  from  bedroom.  She 
is  about  twenty-five,  pretty,  and  well-bred. 
She  talks  with  the  Boston  accent.  She 
is  wearing  a  kimono,  having  been  inter 
rupted  while  dressing.  The  Winthrop 
poise,  on  which  she  prides  herself,  is 
plainly  disturbed.  Evidently  something 
unusual  is  happening.} 

JEAN.  Oh,  Gus!  [As  the  full  glory  of  the  chair 
bursts  upon  her.]  Oh,  Gus!  .  .  .  but  that 
isn't  one  of  the  Pemberton  chairs,  is  it? 


6  $1200  A  YEAR 

Gus.  They  ain't  got  nothin'  fit  to  borrow.  I 
went  down  and  brought  you  up  one  of  our  own 
chairs. 

JEAN.  But  you  shouldn't  have  brought  me 
your  best  chair. 

Gus.  This !  This  ain't  nothin',  Mis'  Stoddard. 
You  ought  to  see  some  of  our  others. 

MARTHA.  He's  got  his  place  furnished  up 
elegant.  I  been  down  there.  Pianola,  whole 
stuffed  parlour  set 

Gus.     Victroly. 

MARTHA.  Over  at  Professor  Dean  Blake's 
house  they  ain't  got  anything  half  as  swell. 

JEAN.  I'm  sure  they  haven't.  Put  it  over 
there,  will  you,  Gus?  [Gus  places  chair  at  table. 
JEAN  takes  handbag  from  top  of  low  bookshelf,  selects 
a  coin,  gives  it  to  Gus.]  Thanks. 

Gus.  Much  obliged.  [JEAN  exits  bedroom; 
Gus  glances  at  coin  in  his  palm.]  That  won't  buy 
no  gasoline. 

MARTHA.     Dime? 

Gus.  Yeh.  Every  little  helps,  though.  It's 
all  a  fella  can  do  to  get  along,  these  days.  Yessir. 
On'y  yesterday  I  was  sayin'  to  my  old  woman,  I 
says,  it's  all  a  fella  can  do  to  get  along.  Things 
keep  goin'  up  like  this,  I  says,  we  sell  the  car. 

MARTHA.  Why  don't  you  get  a  job  in  one  of 
those  big  apartments  over  on  the  Boulevar'J 


$1200  A  YEAR  7 

There's  nothin'  in  it  workin'  in  these  college  per- 
fessors'  flats.  [Lowers  her  voice.]  I  ain't  hardly 
got  the  heart  to  take  my  dollar  an  hour  for  this 
dinner  from  her  in  there. 

Gus.  They  don't  have  much  company  to  eat, 
do  they? 

MARTHA.  This  is  the  first  time  I  done  any 
cookin'  here.  Guess  it's  the  last,  too.  Ain't 
enough  cream  'r  butter,  'r  eggs  to  do  with,  decent. 
I  like  plenty  of  everything.  You  can't  skimp 
an'  cook  right. 

Gus.     These  folks  look  like  they  ain't  had  a 
square  meal  in  the  three  years  they  been  livin'  here. 
MARTHA.    Seems  like  the  more  you  know  the 
less  you  eat. 

Gus.  That's  just  what  I  was  sayin'  to  my  old 
woman  last  night.  I  says  there  ain't  nofhin'  to 
this  edjication,  I  says.  Sometimes,  I  says,  I'm 
sorry  I  ever  joined  up  with  this  here  university. 

[Exit  Gus;  MARTHA,  at  dinner  table,  bus 
ies  herself  with  china  and  silver.  She 
sings  a  tuneless  kind  of  wail  in  one  of 
those  highy  flat  voices;  JEAN  STODDARD,  now 
fully  dressed  in  a  becoming  but  very  shabby 
and  home-made  looking  dress,  enters  from 
bedroom.  She  wears  an  anxious  look. 
Sniffs  the  air  a  little.] 
EAN.  Is  the  roast  all  right,  Martha? 


8  $1200  A  YEAR 

MARTHA  [without  enthusiasm].  It's  cookin'  all 
right.  Don't  hardly  seem  big  enough  to  me, 
though,  for  ten  company. 

JEAN.     There  are  seven  pounds. 

MARTHA.  Over  at  Mrs.  Perfessor  Putnam's 
last  Tuesday  we  had  ten  pounds  for  eight  company 
and  they  wasn't  enough  left  over,  hardly,  to  pay 
me  for  luggin'  it  home. 

JEAN.  I  didn't  know  you  were  supposed  to 
take  it  home. 

MARTHA.  I  can't  swallow  a  morsel  after  I've 
stood  an'  cooked  an'  waited  on  table,  an'  all.  So 
I  just  wrap  it  up  an'  take  it  with. 

JEAN.  Roast  beef  is  fifty-three  cents  a  pound, 
Martha. 

MARTHA.  Comp'ny  don't  think  nothin'  about 
that  when  it's  eatin'  .  .  .  Perfessor  Putnam 
coming? 

JEAN.    Yes. 

MARTHA.  He's  one  of  the  biggest  eatin'  men  I  ever 
see.  Not  that  they  has  any  too  much  to  eat  over 
there,  either.  'Specially  since  the  new  baby  come  an' 
milk  so  high,  and  Mrs.  Perfessor  not  strong  enough 
to  nurse.  You  ain't  had  any  fam'ly,  have  you? 

JEAN.    No. 

MARTHA.  Seems  like  college  perfessors  don't 
run  much  to  babies.  I  don't  believe  there's  more'n 
four  on  the  whole  Hill. 


$1200  A  YEAR  9 

JEAN.     Expensive  luxuries — babies. 

MARTHA.     Land,  yes!     I  had  seven. 

JEAN.     Seven,  Martha! 

MARTHA.     And  never  a  doctor  in  the  house. 

JEAN.     And  are  they  all  living? 

MARTHA.    All  but  five. 

[Exit  MARTHA,  kitchen;  JEAN  takes  a  hand 
ful  of  rather  faded  flowers  out  of  their  tis 
sue  paper  wrapping  and  places  them  in  a 
bowl  in  the  centre  of  the  table.     Stands  back 
to  get  their  effect,  which  is  decidedly  unfes- 
tive.     They  droop  in  the  discouraging  way 
wilted  flowers  have.    JEAN  sighs.] 
MARTHA  [from  kitchen,  off-stage] .    Ain't  you  goin* 
to  have  no  celery  or  radishes  or  olives  or  like  that? 
JEAN.    No. 

MARTHA  [enters  with  dish  in  hand.  Places  it 
on  table].  Folks  do  like  somethin'  to  crunch, 
though. 

JEAN.    I  know,  but  everything  is  so  terribly  high. 
MARTHA.     Well,  I  always  say,  a.  party's  a  party 
an'  do  it  right  or  not  at  all,  I  always  say. 

JEAN.  It  was  a  choice  between  you  and  the 
celery  and  olives,  Martha.  And  I  chose  you. 

MARTHA.  I'm  glad  I  can  help  you  out  for  a 
couple  of  hours.  An'  after  all,  what's  two  dollars 
when  you  know  you  don't  have  to  jump  up  from 
your  own  table  an'  run  around.  Looks  so  common. 


10  91200  A  YEAR 

JEAN.  How  many  hours  a  day  do  you  work, 
Martha? 

MARTHA.  Gen'ally  five.  Days  when  I  help 
out  down  to  the  lunch  club,  six.  But  that's  too 
much.  Jim's  gettin'  his  fifty  a  week  now,  countin* 
commissions.  Why  should  I  slave? 

JEAN.    Who's  Jim? 

MARTHA.  That's  my  oldest  that  drives  the 
milk  route. 

JEAN.  Fifty  a  week?  You  mean  he  gets  fifty 
dollars  a  week  for  delivering  milk! 

MARTHA  [complacently].  Comes  to  a  little 
more'n  that,  some  weeks. 

JEAN.    But,   Martha,   then    with    your — your 

thirty  a  week  that's 

[Stops,  aghast  at  the  sum  total  of  this  mental 
reckoning.] 

MARTHA.  Makes  about  eighty  between  us. 
'Course  paw  don't  earn  much,  with  his  rheumatism. 
He's  laid  up  more'n  half  the  time. 

JEAN.    What  is  his  work? 

MARTHA.  Carpenter.  Awful  aggravatin',  too, 
with  wages  so  good  now  and  so  much  buildin" 
goin'  on.  Times  he  can't  work  more'n  three  or 
four  days  a  week. 

JEAN.    How  much? No,  don't  tell  me. 

[Turns  away] 

MARTHA  [mystified].    H'm? 


$1200  A  YEAR  11 

JEAN.  Nothing.  .  .  .  What  time  do  you 
think  the  pudding  ought  to  go  in,  Martha?  Six? 
It  only  takes  three  quarters  of  an  hour. 

MARTHA    [toward    kitchen}.     Six    is    plenty    of 
time.     One  bottle  of  whipped  cream  ain't  goin' 
to  be  enough  to  cover  it,  though. 
JEAN.     It  will  have  to  do,  Martha. 
MARTHA  [unreconciled].     It's  for  you  to  say. 
[Exits  kitchen;  after  a  moment  she  is  followed 
by  JEAN.    From  the  kitchen  is  heard  the 
clatter  of  pots  and  pans  and  dishes  and  the 
whirr  of  an  egg  beater.     The  door  bell  rings. 
MARTHA  enters  from  kitchen  and  goes  to 
door  still  talking.] 

MARTHA.  It'll  cover  the  top,  mebbe,  but  it 
won't  go  over  the  sides,  that  I  know.  [Opens 
door.]  Oh,  it's  Mr.  Steven. 

[STEVEN  MC€LURE  enters.  He  is  a  senior 
at  Dinsmore  University.  Devoted  to  PAUL 
STODDARD  and  a  frequent  visitor  at  the 
STODDARD  apartment.  He  is  a  good- 
looking  young  chap  of  about  twenty-one, 
keen,  enthusiastic,  but  with  a  tendency 
toward  amateur  socialism,  and  given  to 
speeches  on  the  slightest  provocation.  As  he 
enters  he  is  plainly  excited  about  something.] 
STEVEN.  Oh,  hello,  Martha!  If  you're  here 
it  means  a  party. 


12  $1200  A  YEAR 

MARTHA  [contemptuously].     Only  one  of  them 
faculty  dinners. 

STEVEN.   Oh,  I  didn't  know.    If  Mrs.  Stoddard's 

busy 

[Hesitates,    turns.     He    is    plainly    disap 
pointed.     Enter  JEAN  from  kitchen.] 
JEAN.     Steven ! 

STEVEN.     Hello,  Mrs.  Stoddard!     [Nervous,  ex 
cited.]     Isn't  the  professor  home? 

JEAN.     Not  yet.     You've  neglected  us  shame 
fully.     It's  almost  a  week. 

[Exit  MARTHA,  kitchen.] 

STEVEN.     I've  been  awfully  busy.     You  know 
how   I   love  to   come  here.     I — Mrs.   Stoddard. 
I've  brought  her  to  see  you. 
JEAN.     Brought  whom? 
STEVEN  [triumphant].     Tony! 

JEAN  [bewildered].     Tony!     But 

STEVEN.     You  know.     The  one  I've  told  you 
about. 

JEAN  [smiles].    You've  told  me  about  so  many. 
Where  is  she? 

STEVEN.     Right  here. 

[STEVEN  steps  quickly  back  into  the  hall, 
brings  ANTONIA  ZSUPNIK  into  the  room. 
TONY  is  a  vivid,  dark-eyed,  vivacious  girl 
of  eighteen  or  twenty,  very  pretty.  Her 
costume  is  in  direct  contrast  to  MRS. 


$1200  A  YEAR  13 

STODDARD'S.  She  is  wearing  clothes  that 
are  as  expensive  as  they  are  ornate.  Hat, 
shoes,  dress  represent  money  and  bad  taste. 
She  looks  the  factory  girl  she  is.  In  the 
beginning  TONY  is  ill  at  ease,  but  as  the 
scene  goes  on  she  recovers  her  self -confidence.] 
JEAN  [aghast].  Oh! 

STEVEN.     Mrs.  Stoddard,  this  is  'Tony. 
TONY.     Pleased  to  make  your  acquaintance. 
JEAN  [startled,  but  almost  concealing  it].    How 
do  you  do,  Tony.     [Takes  the  girl's  hand.]     I'm 
calling  you  Tony  because  Steven  hasn't  told  me 
your  last  name. 

TONY    [giving    it   its  full    Bohemian   flavour]. 
Zsupnik. 

JEAN.    I  didn't  quite 

STEVEN.     It's  Zsupnik,  Antonia  Zsupnik.     We 
call  her  Tony.     It's  Bohemian,  you  know. 

JEAN.    Oh,  yes — yes,  of  course.     Tony     .     .     . 
That's  so  pretty. 

STEVEN.    I  knew  you'd  be  crazy  about  her  the 
minute  you  saw  her. 

JEAN.  Won't  you  sit  down? 
TONY.  I  will  for  one.  We  walked  all  the  way 
up  here  from  the  Flats.  [There  are  only  two  avail 
able  chairs  in  the  room  besides  the  chairs  placed  at  the 
dinner  table.  JEAN  drags  the  piano  stool  from  its  place 
at  the  end  of  the  table.}  I'm  about  ready  to  drop. 


14  $1200  A   YEAR 

STEVEN.  Let  me  do  that.  [Takes  piano  stool 
which  he  straddles  boyishly.] 

TONY.  Steve's  great  on  walkin'.  Says  I  don't 
get  enough  exercise.  I  tell  him  I  get  all  the  exer 
cise  I  want  down  t'  the  factory. 

JEAN.  Steven  has  told  us  so  much  about  you. 
I've  wanted  to  know  you. 

TONY.  I've  been  dyin'  to  meet  you  folks. 
Steven's  always  goin'  on  about  the  Stoddards. 
Seems  to  think  more  of  you  than  he  does  of  his 
own  pa. 

JEAN.    I  hope  not. ,  Do  you  know  Mr.  McClure? 

TONY.     I  ain't  just  met  him,  exactly. 

STEVEN.  You  see — he  doesn't  know  about 
Tony  and  me.  That  we're  friends. 

TONY.     I  guess  Steve's  ashamed  of  me. 

STEVEN.     I'm  not,  Tony.     Don't  say  that. 

TONY.  Well,  why  don't  you  tell  him  then? 
[To  MRS.  STODDARD.]  Can  you  see  Old  Man 
McClure's  face  if  he  knew  his  son  was  keepin' 
comp'ny  with  one  of  his  own  mill  hands!  I'm 
in  the  wire  works,  you  know. 

JEAN  [rather faintly.]  The  wire  works!  I  didn't 
know. 

TONY.  Yeh.  It's  just  like  one  them  novels, 
ain't  it?  Or  a  movie? 

JEAN  [hesitatingly,  but  with  great  seriousness]. 
You  know,  Tony,  Steven  is  in  his  last  year  at  the 


$1200  A  YEAR  15 

university.  My  husband,  Professor  Stoddard, 
says  he'll  graduate  with  honours — if  he  doesn't 
let  outside  affairs  distract  him  too  much. 

TONY.  Yeh,  Steve's  smart.  You  can  tell 
that  lookin'  at  him,  just.  An'  when  he  gets  be 
hind  them  glasses — you  know. 

[Makes  two  circles  of  her  thumbs  and  fore 
fingers  in  imitation  of  shell-rimmed  glasses, 
and  brings  them  up  to  her  eyes,  owlishly. 
JEAN  and  STEVEN  laugh  in  spite  of  them 
selves.} 

STEVEN  [correcting  her  grammar].     Those,  Tony. 

TONY  [blankly].     Huh? 

STEVEN.     Those.     Those  glasses. 

TONY.  Oh.  Those  glasses.  [Very  carefully] 
What'd  I  say?  Them?  Anyway,  it  don't  make 
the  joke  no  better. 

STEVEN  [goes  over  to  her.  Oratorically].  Poor 
little  girl.  To  think  that  my  college  education, 
the  very  clothes  I  wear,  the  food  I  eat,  are  bought 
at  the  terrific  price  of  this  child's  youth. 

TONY  [giggles].     He's  always  goin'  on  like  that. 

STEVEN.  I  never  come  within  sight  of  our  big 
house  on  the  Hill  that  I  don't  sicken  with  the 
thought  that  her  father  and  mother,  Tony 
herself,  and  thousands  like  them,  are  living  in 
squalor  over  at  the  Flats.  Look  at  her!  Look 
at  her! 


16  $1200  A  YEAR 

TONY  [grows  indignant.  Looks  down  at  her 
finery,  then  up  at  him].  Say,  what's  the  matter 
with  me,  anyway! 

STEVEN.     Poor  little  girl. 

JEAN  [dryly].  After  all,  Steven,  your  father's 
money  built  this  university,  you  know.  And  he 
practically  supports  it. 

STEVEN.  Blood  money!  Do-  you  know  what 
this  child's  father  does?  He's  a  puddler. 

JEAN  [rather  blankly].     A  puddler? 

STEVEN.  For  eight  long  hours  a  day  he  puddles, 
and  puddles  and  puddles. 

TONY  [with  spirit].  Well,  he  gets  his  good 
twenty  dollars  a  day  for  it,  don't  he?  Ain't  no 
body  in  the  mills  can  puddle  better 'n  my  old 
man. 

JEAN.     Twenty  dollars  a  day!     Surely  not! 

STEVEN.  You  don't  understand,  Mrs.  Stoddard. 
Neither  does  she.  Oh,  the  injustice  of  it.  The 

tragedy 

[MARTHA  appears  in  doorway  of  kitchen.] 

MARTHA.     The  cream  won't  whip,  ma'am! 

JEAN.  Speaking  of  tragedies.  [To  MARTHA.] 
But  Martha,  it  must.  It  was  double  X  whipping 
cream.  Thirty  cents. 

MARTHA.     It's  went  to  cheese,  like. 

JEAN  [to  TONY  and  STEVEN].  Just  a  minute. 
[Toward  kitchen.]  Did  you  chill  the  bowl  before 


91200  A  YEAR  17 

you  began  to  whip  it?     You  know  if  the  bowl  is 

warm  it  never  will 

[JEAN  and  MARTHA  go  into  the  kitchen} 

TONY  [looks  after  her — then  jumps  up  and 
begins  to  examine  the  shabby  room  interestedly]. 
Your  friends  ain't  fixed  up  very  swell,  are 
they? 

STEVEN.  Professor  Stoddard's  salary  at  the 
university  is  only  twelve  hundred  a  year. 

TONY.  Twelve  hundred  dollars  a  year!  Le' 
see  now.  .  .  .  [Does  some  painful  mental 
arithmetic.]  Twelve  into  twelve's  one.  Put 
down  .  .  .  four  into  .  .  .  why,  that's 
only  twenty -five  dollars  a  week!  An'  here  a  min 
ute  ago  you  was  ravin'  because  my  old  man  only 
gets  twenty  a  day.  If  you  ain't  a  nut! 

STEVEN.  Professor  Stoddard  is  one  of  the  lead 
ing  authorities  on  Economics  in  this  country. 
He's  recognized  abroad;  and  he's  only  thirty -two. 
Why,  there's  no  telling  what  he'll  do.  They  say 
the  book  he's  writing  on  the  wage  system  from 
the  time  of  Charlemagne  to  the  present  day  will 
practically  revolutionize  the  whole 

TONY.  If  he's  so  good  why  don't  he  get  more 
money? 

STEVEN.     Well,  professors  don't. 

TONY.  I  don't  know  nothin'  about  this  here 
Charley  Main  an'  his  wages  but  believe  me  if  I 


18  $1200  A  YEAR 

wasn't  gettin'  more  than  twenty-five  a  week 
down  to  the  wire  works  I'd  do  more'n  write  a 
boo"k  about  it,  I  would.  [ToNY  is  wandering 
about  the  shabby  little  room,  inquisitively.  Stops 
before  the  portrait  of  Governor  Gamaliel  Winthrop 
and  gazes  up  at  it,  her  head  on  one  side.]  Who's 
this  old  bird? 

STEVEN.  That's  Governor  Gamaliel  Winthrop, 
one  of  the  first  governors  of  Massachusetts.  Mrs. 
Stoddard  is  directly  descended  from  him. 

TONY.  What's  he  wearin'  a  Buster  Brown  collar 
for? 

STEVEN.  That's  the  way  they  dressed  in  those 
days.  It's  the  Puritan  costume. 

TONY  [blankly].     Oh. 

STEVEN.  Mrs.  Stoddard  is  very  proud  of  him. 
It  was  he  and  others  like  him  who  founded  this 
country. 

TONY.     Go  on!     It  was  Columbus. 

STEVEN.     Not  found,  Tony!     Founded! 

[JEAN  comes  in  from  kitchen,  hurriedly 
followed  by  MARTHA.  MARTHA  closes 
kitchen  door  behind  her.] 

MARTHA.  I'll  just  run  over  to  Baumgartner's 
delicatessen  and  get  another  bottle  of  cream. 
[JEAN  is  taking  money  from  pocketbook  which  she  has 
put  on  bookshelf,  back.] 

JEAN.     You  won't  be  long,  will  you,  Martha? 


$1200  A  YEAR  19 

[Gives  money  to  MARTHA.     MARTHA  goes  toward 
outer  door.] 

MARTHA.     You  just  keep  an  eye  on  that  roast, 
Mis'  Stoddard.     Needs  bastin'  continual. 

[MARTHA  exits.] 

STEVEN.     We'd  better  run  along.     You're  busy 
with  your  dinner. 

JEAN.     There's  nothing  to  do,  really.     I  pre 
pared  everything  this  morning.     Martha  came  an 

hour  ago  to  finish  and  serve  so 

[MARTHA'S  head  is  thrust  in  at  door.] 
MARTHA.  Here's  the  Winthrops  comin'. 
JEAN.  Already! 

[The    head    vanishes.     MARTHA'S    voice    is 

heard  off,  greeting  the  WINTHROPS.] 
STEVEN.     Come  on,  Tony.     We'd  better  go. 
JEAN.     Do  stay  just  a  minute.     They'll  want 
to  see  you,  Steven. 

[The  WINTHROPS  enter.  PROFESSOR  WIN- 
THROP  is  head  of  the  Greek  department  and 
looks  it.  He  is  forty -eight  but  seems  older. 
Absent-minded,  scholarly,  and  impractical. 
He  is  only  dimly  aware  of  anything  that  has 
happened  since  the  Second  Peloponnesian 
War.  FRANCES  WINTHROP,  who  follows  her 
father  into  the  room,  is  twenty  and  amazingly 
pretty  considering  how  startling  is  her  re 
semblance  to  the  portrait  of  GOVERNOR 


20  $1200  A  YEAR 

GAMALIEL  WINTHROP  on  the  wall.  Her 
shabbiness  is  as  apparent  as  JEAN'S. 
Hat  and  gown  have  that  home-made  look. 

WINTHROP  [to  JEAN],  Hello,  little  sister.  [Pats 
her  cheek.]  How  pretty  we  look! 

FRANCES.  Hello,  Jean  dear.  Father  would 
come  early. 

WINTHROP.  I  wanted  a  word  with  Paul  before 
the  others  came.  Just  a  word.  [Looks  vaguely  about 
as  though  expecting  to  find  him.]  Ah,  Steven  Mc- 
Clure!  Yes. 

STEVEN  [comes  forward].     How  do  you  do,  sir. 

FRANCES.     How  do  you  do,  Steven. 

STEVEN.     Hello,  Frances.     [Goes  over  to  her.] 

JEAN.  Paul  isn't  here  yet,  Henry.  He  prom 
ised  to  be  home  early,  too.  He'll  want  to 
dress. 

FRANCES.  [She  is  taking  off  her  hat,  still  in 
conversation  with  STEVEN.  Turns.]  I  thought  I 
might  help  you,  Jean. 

JEAN.    Martha's  here,  helping. 

FRANCES.    Oh,  you  got  Martha! 

JEAN.  It  does  seem  a  frightful  extravagance. 
But  it's  just  for  two  hours.  And  after  all,  only 
once  a  year,  really.  I  couldn't  do  it  alone. 

FRANCES.     Where  is  she? 

JEAN.  She's  gone  on  an  errand.  [Remembers 
TONY,  who  has  gone  up.  Brings  her  down  rather 


$1200  A  YEAR  21 

hesitatingly.]  Oh,  Tony,  this  is  my  brother,  Pro 
fessor  Winthrop.  Miss  Tony — ah 

STEVEN  [quickly].     Zsupnik. 

JEAN.  Yes,  of  course — Miss  Zsupnik.  .  .  . 
My  niece,  Frances  Winthrop. 

TONY.  Pleased  to  make  your  acquaintance, 
Frances.  [FRANCES,  startled  but  game,  bows.] 

FRANCES  [to  STEVEN].  Where  have  you  been? 
We  never  see  you  at  the  house  nowadays.  Father 
misses  you. 

STEVEN.     Don't  you? 

FRANCES.     My  cooky  jar  stays  surprisingly  full. 

STEVEN.  Oh,  those  wonderful  little  round  ones, 
with  nuts  inside!  [Remembers  TONY.]  But  I've 
been  awfully  busy  lately,  somehow.  I  don't 
know. 

TONY  [proprietorially\.  Steven,  we  better  be 
goin'. 

STEVEN.    All  right. 

FRANCES  [a  glance  at  TONY].     I  see. 

STEVEN  [to  JEAN].  I  couldn't  have  picked  a 
worse  day,  could  I?  Party  and  everything.  We 
shouldn't  have  stayed. 

TONY.  Didn't  I  take  the  half-day  off  just  to 
come! 

JEAN.  Did  you  really?  And  I  can't  even  ask 
you  to  stay  to  dinner.  I'm  so  sorry.  You'll 
come  again? 


22  91200  A  YEAR 

TONY.  Sure.  You  see,  at  the  wire  works  it's 
all  piece  work.  We  get  paid  for  how  much  we  do. 

JEAN.    Oh,  yes. 

TONY.  Yeh.  So  if  I  take  off,  why,  I'm  the  goat. 
[FRANCES  has  gone  over  to  STEVEN  and  is  talking 
to  him,  animatedly.] 

JEAN.  I'm  afraid  it  was  hardly  worth  while. 
You  must  come  soon  again. 

TONY.     Come  on,  Steve! 

STEVEN  [to  FRANCES].  It  sounds  awfully  jolly. 
I'd  love  to  come,  but  I'm  afraid  I  can't. 

TONY.  Pleased  to  have  made  your  acquaintance, 
Mrs.  Stoddard.  [TONY  and  STEVEN  toward  door.] 
Well,  good  afternoon  all. 

STEVEN.     Good-bye. 

JEAN  [at  door].  Good-bye.  [STEVEN  and  TONY 
go.  JEAN  turns  toward  FRANCES.  The  two  look 
at  each  other  wordlessly  for  a  moment.] 

FRANCES.  Where  did  Steven  pick  up  that 
terrible  girl! 

WINTHROP  [who  is  browsing,  back,  among  the 
books].  H'm?  What's  that? 

FRANCES  [raises  her  vowe  slightly}.  That  queer 
person  with  Steven. 

JEAN.  Here.  Let  me  have  your  hat  and  stick, 
Henry.  Frances,  put  your  things  in  the  bedroom. 
How  pretty  you  look! 

WINTHROP    [who    has    been    ruminating].     Was 


$1200  A  YEAR  23 

she    queer?     Now    I    thought    she    looked    quite 
charming. 

JEAN.     She  is  pretty. 

FRANCES  [toward  bedroom  with  hat,  etc].  But — 
Zsupnik? 

[Exits  bedroom.] 

WINTHROP.  Zsupnik — Zsupnik.  Slavic,  I 
should  say.  Yes. 

FRANCES  [enters  from  bedroom,  patting  her  hair]. 
Where  does  he  pick  up  these  people? 

JEAN.  Don't  ask  me.  You  know  Steven.  He 
was  making  speeches  about  her  just  before  you 
came.  Said  she  was  downtrodden.  Did  you  no 
tice  her  hat? 

FRANCES.  There  was  nothing  downtrodden 
about  that.  Self-assertive,  I'd  call  it. 

JEAN.  It  probably  cost  more  than  all  my 
winter  clothes. 

FRANCES.     How  do  those  people  do  it! 

JEAN  [bitterly].  They  do  it  on  twenty  dollars 
a  day.  When  that  girl  sees  a  hat  she  wants  she 
goes  into  the  shop  and  buys  it.  I  can't.  I  make 
my  own  hats.  Not  only  that — they  look  it. 

FRANCES.  I  haven't  had  a  new  hat  in  two  years. 
Do  you  know,  I  don't  so  much  mind  home-made 
dresses,  or  blouses,  or  even  suits.  You  can  hide 
a  bad  collar  with  a  ruffle;  and  you  can  save  an 
awkward  skirt  with  a  drape.  But  there's  some- 


24  $1200  A  YEAR 

thing  about  a  hat.  It's  that  thing  they  call  line. 
I  suppose. 

JEAN.  No,  it's  useless  to  disguise  a  bad  hat. 
It's  like  character  in  a  crisis.  It  comes  right  to 
the  top  and  stands,  revealed. 

FRANCES.  Wasn't  it  wonderful,  during  the 
war,  when  being  shabby  was  considered  the  thing? 
According  to  those  standards,  I  was  practically 
the  smartest  dresser  on  the  Hill. 

JEAN.  It  isn't  only  clothes.  It's  food,  and 
books,  and  music,  and  flowers,  and  the  theatre. 
We're  Winthrops,  Frances.  We've  had  those 
things  for  hundreds  of  years.  They're  part  of  us. 
Paul  and  I  haven't  gone  to  a  play  or  a  concert  in 
a  year.  Concerts !  I've  all  I  can  do  to  buy  enough 
food  to  nourish  us. 

FRANCES.  I  know.  I  sometimes  think  that  if 
I  had  money  I'd  spend  it  for  perfume  and  chicken 
and  plush  furniture,  like  a  negro  washwoman. 

JEAN.  I  used  to  be  able  to  manage,  when  Paul 
and  I  first  were  married.  Perhaps  because  we 
were  younger  then.  I  don't  know.  Things  are 
becoming  so — so  terrifying  now. 

FRANCES.  I  know.  Father's  salary  and  my 
housekeeping  money  are  just  like  that  definition 
of  parallel  lines  in  geometry — they  never  meet, 
no  matter  how  far  produced.  In  fact,  the  longer 
they  go  on,  the  less  likely  they  are  to  meet. 


91200  A  YEAR  25 

JEAN.  Paul  ought  to  have  steaks  and  roasts 
and  chops  and  I  give  him  stews.  It's  Tony's 
mother  and  her  kind  who  come  into  the  butcher's 
and  order  two  dollars  and  fifty  cents'  worth  of 
pork  roast  while  I'm  turning  my  miserable  pennies 
over  and  over  and  wondering  whether  I  ought  to 
use  them  for  a  pound  and  a  half  of  veal  stew  or 
if  Paul  will  notice  if  we  have  hamburger  steak 
again.  Paul  ought  to  be  doing  his  best  work  now. 
I  ought  to  be  helping  him  with  encouragement, 
and  sympathy,  and  understanding.  How  can  I 
when  all  my  energy  and  brains  are  given  to  making 
twenty-five  cents  do  the  work  of  a  dollar? 

WINTHROP.  Now  that's  very  well  taken, 
Jean.  You  no  doubt  recollect  that  a  similar  situa 
tion  is  anticipated  by  Aristotle  in  his  Politics 
when  he  says — but  perhaps  Paul  has  it  here. 

[Goes  back  to  the  bookshelves ,  where  he  rum 
mages  happily,  and  is  soon  lost  in  a  book.] 

FRANCES.  You  see,  my  problem's  simpler  than 
yours,  Jean.  Poor  dear  father  never  knows  what 
he's  eating.  Carrots  or  artichokes — it's  all  one 
to  him. 

JEAN.  At  your  age  you  ought  to  have  nothing 
to  worry  about  but  new  frocks  and  Junior  Proms, 
and  whether  your  dance  bouquet  is  going  to  match 
your  gown. 

FRANCES.     That  gown  has  been  the  same  for 


2G  $1200  A   YEAR 

three  years.  It's  as  unchangeable  as  the  college 
colours. 

JEAN.  The  pettiness  of  it  all.  This  dinner — 
it  ought  to  be  the  merest  incident — and  it's  a 
tragedy.  I  needn't  pretend  with  you,  Frances 
dear.  You  know. 

FRANCES.     I'll  have  to  have  one  myself,  soon. 

JEAN.  I've  been  putting  this  off  month  after 
month.  But  we  had  to  have  them.  They've 
entertained  us.  They  know  we  can't  afford  it. 
We  know  they  can't.  I've  had  to  plan  and  scheme 
and  contrive  for  every  bit  of  it.  It  isn't  that  I 
don't  like  to  have  them.  I  do.  And  I'm  fond 
of  them.  But  not  when  it  means  that  we've  had 
to  do  without  things  for  weeks  past,  and  that  we'll 
have  to  do  without  them  for  weeks  to  come. 

FRANCES.  You're  such  a  marvellous  manager, 
Jean. 

JEAN.  I'm  economical  by  marriage — not  by 
nature. 

FRANCES.  Still,  we're  not  as  badly  off  as  poor 
dear  Mrs.  Gregg. 

JEAN.  What's  the  matter  with  her?  I  asked 
the  Greggs  for  to-night.  But  they  declined. 

FRANCES.  Of  course.  This  is  vile  gossip,  but 
they  say  that  poor  dear  Mrs.  Gregg  only  goes  to 
stand-up  parties  where  she  can  keep  her  hat  on — 
teas,  and  that  sort  of  thing. 


$1800  A  YEAR  27 

JEAN.     Why? 

FRANCES.  Her  hair's  turning  quite  gray,  but 
her  switch  stays  brown  and  she  can't  afford  a  new 
one. 

JEAN.    Do  you  know,  that's  almost  not  funny. 

FRANCES.     It's  tragic. 

JEAN.     Don't  ever  tell  that  to  Aunt  Abby. 

FRANCES.  That  reminds  me.  It's  all  been 
arranged. 

JEAN.    You're  going  to  Boston? 

FRANCES.  Yes.  I  had  a  letter  from  Aunt  Abby 
this  morning.  Father'§  to  be  at  Harvard  for 
four  months.  One  of  the  exchange  professors. 
And  I'm  to  stay  with  her. 

JEAN  [almost  enviously] .   Four  months  of  Boston ! 

FRANCES  [meaningly].  With  Aunt  Abigail. 

JEAN.  She  is  terribly  ancestral,  dear.  But 
there'll  be  the  symphony  concerts!  And  all  those 
nice  Harvard  boys. 

FRANCES.  And  a  grate  fire  in  my  bedroom.  I 
always  love  that  at  Aunt  Abby's.  It  makes  me 
feel  like  the  heroine  of  an  English  novel. 

JEAN.  And  no  housekeeping  troubles  to  bother 
you  for  four  whole  months.  Oh,  Frances! 

FRANCES.    You  make  it  sound  almost  attractive. 

JEAN.  I'd  find  even  Aunt  Abby  restful  after 
the  day  I've  had. 

FRANCES.    Poor  dear! 


28  $1200  A  YEAR 

JEAN.  Entertaining  isn't  very  festive  when 
you've  got  to  be  an  expert  mathematician  in  order 
to  make  the  housekeeping  money  come  out  right 
at  the  end  of  the  week. 

FEANCES  [at  table}.  Whom  are  you  having  be 
sides  the  Putnams?  Let  me  see  [counts  places} 
two — four — six — why,  there  are  ten.  No  wonder! 

JEAN.  Well,  we  have  to  have  Dean  Blake  and 
Mrs.  Blake.  They've  never  dined  here  and  we've 
been  there  a  dozen  times.  That's  why  I  had 
Martha  in,  really.  The  dean,  you  know.  Then 
Howard  Snell,  and  Milly  Fanning  of  course 

FRANCES.  Poor  Milly.  .  .  .  She's  getting 
to  be  such  a  faded  fiancee.  How  long  have  they 
been  engaged?  Ever  since  I  can  remember. 

JEAN.  Oh,  it  must  be  nine  years  or  more. 
They  say  she  used  to  be  quite  a  beauty.  [The 
doorbell  rings].  That  must  be  Martha.  [Goes 
to  door.  Opens  it.] 

[SLOTKIN,  the  tailor ,  comes  in.  He  carries  a 
freshly  pressed  suit  over  his  arm.  A  little 
dark  man.  He  is  nattily  dressed,  prosper 
ous  looking.] 

SLOTKIN.     Here  is  the  professor's  suit. 

JEAN.  Oh,  yes,  I'll  take  it.  I  was  afraid  you'd 
be  late. 

SLOTKIN  [throws  suit  over  the  back  of  a  chair ,  but 
keeps  one  hand  on  it].  It  ain't  such  a  good  job. 


$1200  A  YEAR  29 

Spots  like  that  you  got  to  have  it  dry  cleaned. 
Here.  And  here.  But  I  done  anyway  the  best 
I  could. 

[FRANCES,  during  the  conversation,  has  strolled 
over  to  the  dinner  table,  has  arranged  the 
scanty  flowers  so  that  they  show  to  letter 
advantage,  goes  up  to  where  her  father  is 
reading,  peeps  over  his  shoulder  as  he  sits 
absorbed  in  a  book,  back.] 

JEAN.  I'm  sure  you  did.  At  any  rate,  it  will 
have  to  do.  I  won't  have  it  dry  cleaned  just  yet. 
I  tried  to  do  it  myself,  but  I  was  afraid  I'd  ruin 
it  altogether.  [SLOTKIN  still  stands,  one  hand  on 
the  suit]  You  may  leave  it. 

SLOTKIN   [takes   bill   out   of  his   pocket].     If   it 

would  be  convenient 

JEAN.    I'll  send  you  a  check. 
SLOTKIN.     It's  five  dollars  and  fifty  cents. 
JEAN.     I'm  afraid  I  haven't  it — just  now. 
SLOTKIN.     Over  six  months  now  it's  been  run 
ning,  Mrs.  Stoddard. 

JEAN  [nervously].     Yes,  I  know,  I'm  sorry 

SLOTKIN.  Sorry  don't  pay  no  rent,  lady.  I 
got  my  expenses.  I  got  to  think  of  my  family, 
too.  My  presser  alone  I  got  to  pay  him  fifty 
dollars  a  week. 

JEAN.     Fifty  dollars  a  week! 

SLOTKIN.    Sure,  fifty.     From  unpaid  bills,  Mrs. 


30  $1200  A  YEAR 

Stoddard,  it  don't  come.  To  you  five  dollars  is 
maybe  nothing.  A  professor's  from  a  college  wife 
how  should  she  know  from  the  way  a  poor  tailor 
is  got  to  scrape  and  save! 

JEAN  [utterly  wretched}.  But  I  haven't  a  penny 
of  change.  I  gave  the  last  to  the  maid  for  some 
cream. 

SLOTKIN.  Huh — cream!  [Picks  up  suit  and 
walks  toward  door.}  I  come  back  again  to-morrow. 

JEAN.  But  he's  got  to  have  it  to-night.  We're 
having  guests  to  dinner. 

SLOTKIN  [angry].  Say,  dinners!  You  first  can 
pay  your  bills. 

JEAN.  But  Mr.  Stoddard  must  have  the  suit. 
[Turns  desperately  to  FRANCES  who  has  tried  to 
appear  unhearing}  Frances,  have  you  any  money? 

FRANCES.    How  much? 

JEAN.  Five-fifty.  [FRANCES  gives  a  little  Jwpe- 
less  gesture  and  shakes  her  head;  JEAN  turns  to 
WINTHROP  who  is  at  the  back  of  the  room.]  Henry ! 
[WINTHROP  comes  down.]  Have  you  any  money? 

WINTHROP.    Money?     Why,  yes,  I  think  I 

JEAN.     I  need  five  dollars  and  fifty  cents. 

WINTHROP  [hopefully].     M-m-m — We'll  see. 

[They  all  stand  expectantly ,  then  less  and  less 

hopefully  as  he  works  his  way  methodically 

through  each  pocket  from  pants  to  vest, 

from  vest  to  coat.    In  a  coat  pocket  he 


$1200  A  YEAR  31 

comes  upon  his  purse — a  limp  leather 
affair  of  the  old-fashioned  clasp  kind. 
They  all  visibly  brighten  at  this.  He  opens 
the  purse,  peers  into  it,  empties  its  contents 
into  his  hand.] 

WINTHROP  [counts] .  Ten — fifteen — twenty- 
three  [looks  up  brightly].  Twenty-three  cents. 
How  much  did  you  say  you  wanted?  [At  this 
SLOTKIN,  with  full  knowledge  of  the  hopelessness  of  the 
situation,  leaves,  taking  the  suit  with  him.  The 
door  slams.] 

JEAN.     Frances,  what  shall  I  do? 

FRANCES.  Don't  take  it  so  seriously,  dear. 
After  all,  it's  rather  funny. 

JEAN.  But  it  isn't  funny.  It's  the  only  suit 
Paul  has.  He  went  to  his  classes  this  morning  in  a 
suit  the  old  clothes  man  wouldn't  look  at.  .  .  . 
If  it  were  five  million  it  would  be  funny.  But 
five  dollars! 

FRANCES.  Isn't  Paul  awfully  late?  We  came 
early  just  because  father  insisted  he  must  talk  to 
him. 

JEAN.  He'll  scarcely  have  time  to  dress. 
[Remembers.]  He  won't  need  to,  now. 

FRANCES.  Paul's  very  late,  father.  He's  prob 
ably  delayed  at  the  university.  I'm  afraid  you 
won't  have  time  for  your  talk  with  him  before  the 
others  arrive. 


32  $1200  A   YEAR 

WINTHROP.  Yes,  yes.  I  must  talk  to  him. 
He's  been  inviting  trouble  with  those  lectures  of 
his  on  trade  guilds. 

JEAN  [startled].  Paul  says  those  lectures  are 
more  popular  than  any  he's  ever  given.  His 
classes  have  never  been  so  crowded. 

WINTHROP.  Still,  you  know  he  is  a  bit  out 
spoken  at  times — for  a  college  professor.  When 
the  classroom  is  overcrowded — take  warning,  I  say. 
I've  been  lecturing  for  twenty  years  on  Theocritus 
and  the  other  Greek  bucolic  poets,  and  in  all  that 
time  I've  been  very  careful  not  to  say  anything 
that  might  give  offence.  Yes,  indeed. 

JEAN.  There  isn't  a  man  in  the  country  who 
has  Paul's  grasp  of  his  subject. 

WINTHROP.  That  may  well  be.  Paul  is  a  re 
markable  young  man.  But  Mr.  McClure  objects 
to  some  of  the  things  Paul  has  said. 

FRANCES.  What  right  has  a  man  like  that  to 
censor  Paul's  lectures? 

WINTHROP.  You  forget,  my  dear,  that  Cyrus 
McClure  and  his  mills  support  this  university. 
Who  would  have  a  better  right? 

[Enter  PAUL.  A  well-built  man  of  thirty-one 
or  two,  with  a  fine,  strong  face.  From 
shoes  to  hat  he  is  respectably  seedy.  There 
is  about  him  a  look  that  might  suggest  the 
successful  lawyer,  or  even  business  man, 


$1200  A  YEAR  33 

if  he  were  better  dressed.  As  he  comes  in 
his  manner  and  expression  plainly  show 
weariness  and  great  depression.] 

JEAN.  Paul,  dear,  where  in  the  world  have  you 
been? 

STODDARD  [kisses  her  perfunctorily].  Sorry,  dear. 
[Listlessly.]  Hello,  Frances.  Hello,  Henry.  [He 
slumps,  rather  than  sits,  in  the  nearest  chair,  as 
though  utterly  weary.  Runs  his  hand  through  his 
hair.] 

JEAN  [stands  over  him,  tenderly].  Your  hair  is 
actually  wild,  dear.  And  your  tie!  [It  is  twisted 
almost  under  one  ear,  and  an  end  straggles  over  his 
coat  collar.]  Do  go  and  brush  up. 

STODDARD  [dully].    Yes. 

JEAN.     Paul,  Slotkin  was  here. 

STODDARD  [hardly  hearing  her].     Who? 

JEAN.  Slotkin,  the  tailor.  He  brought  the 
suit  he'd  cleaned  but  he  took  it  away  again.  He 
says  he  won't  leave  it  until  we  pay  the  five-fifty 
we  owe  him. 

STODDARD.    He  said  that  to  you? 

JEAN.    Yes,  but 

STODDARD.  After  all,  he's  right.  And  we'll 
pay  him.  We're  going  to  pay  everybody  we  owe. 

JEAN.  You'll  have  to  wear  those  clothes  to 
dinner.  He  has  your  suit.  I'm  so  sorry.  They'll 
be  here  any  minute. 


34  tl200  A  YEAR 

STODDARD.     It  doesn't  matter. 

JEAN.     Paul,  there's  something  wrong. 

WINTHROP.  If  it's  this  little  friction  about  the 
lectures,  my  dear  boy 

STODDARD  [quickly].     You've  heard! 

WINTHROP.  I  heard  there  was  some  slight 
trouble.  Some  objection.  I  really  think  you 
might  tone  them  down  a  shade.  Just  a  shade. 

STODDARD  [laughs  grimly}.     Tone  them  down! 

WINTHROP.  After  all,  you  must  realize  that  as 
a  professor  your  future  at  the  university  depends 
in  a  great  measure 

STODDARD.  I  have  no  future  at  the  university. 
I'm  through. 

JEAN.     Paul,  what  do  you  mean! 

STODDARD.  I've  quit  the  university.  I've  re 
signed. 

FRANCES,  JEAN  [simultaneously].  Paul!  Re 
signed! 

WINTHROP.     Nonsense,  my  boy. 

JEAN.     But  what  for?     What  have  you  done! 

STODDARD.  I  don't  expect  you  to  believe  it, 
but  they  told  me  that  my  discussion  of  trade 
guilds  in  England  in  the  fifteenth  century  was 
offensive;  that  I  must  tone  my  lectures  down. 
They  didn't  ask  me  if  I  would.  Old  man  McClure 
sat  there  like  a  slave  owner  and  said  I  must.  No 
wage  agitation  lectures  at  this  university,  he  said 


91200  A  YEAR  35 

Why,  until  yesterday,  he  never  knew  there  were 
trade  guilds  in  fifteenth-century  England.  He 
doesn't  know  yet  what  they  are. 

JEAN.     Then  why  does  he  object? 

STODDARD.  Because  he  says  they  have  to  do 
with  labour.  I  traced  their  growth  to  the  present- 
day  labour  unions.  He  heard  about  that.  You 
know  how  it  is  in  a  kept  university.  Besides,  he 
said,  it  would  turn  the  public's  attention  to  his 
mills.  "There's  too  much  talk  going  on  about 
capital  and  labour!"  he  said,  "as  it  is.  I  won't  have 
it  in  the  university.  You'll  have  to  stop  those 
lectures."  He  said  that — to  me! 

JEAN.    And  you,  Paul?    You 

FRANCES.    What  did  you  say? 

STODDARD  [quietly].  I  told  him  I'd  see  him  and 
the  whole  university  council  in  hell  first. 

WINTHROP.     What,  what !     You  didn't  say  that ! 

JEAN.  They'll  never  take  you  back  if  you 
said  that. 

STODDARD.  Take  me  back!  Do  you  think  I'd 
go  back? 

JEAN.  But,  Paul,  what  are  we  going  to  do? 
What  are 

STODDARD.  We're  going  to  be  human  beings. 
We're  going  to  get  out  of  here. 

JEAN.     Out  of  here!     Where? 

STODDARD.     I'm  going  down  to  McClure's  mills 


36  $1200  A  YEAR 

and  get  a  job — a  real  job.  He  may  never  know 
I'm  there  but  he'll  be  paying  me  money — real 
money.  Do  you  know  what  those  fellows  get 
down  there?  They  earn  more  in  a  day  than  I  do  in 
a  week. 

JEAN.  Dear,  you  can't.  Work  in  a  mill! 
You  don't  mean  it. 

STODDARD.  I  do  mean  it.  I  spent  four  years  at 
Dinsmore  and  three  years  at  Oxford  getting  my 
degrees.  I  believed  I  was  fitting  myself  for  the 
biggest  job  a  man  could  tackle — training  young 
boys  to  be  fine,  useful  men.  I  believed  I  could 
teach  them  to  think  clearly  and  cleanly.  I 
starved,  and  dug,  and  tutored,  and  crammed  during 
those  seven  years.  I  felt  that  any  sacrifice  I  might 
make  would  be  little  enough  for  such  a  splendid 
service.  I  was  a  fool. 

JEAN  [goes  over  to  him}.  Now,  don't,  dear. 
You're  excited.  You're  not  yourself.  To-morrow 
you'll- 

STODDARD.  I  am  myself.  I  tell  you  my  eyes 
are  open  for  the  first  time.  We've  all  been  blind. 
Blind!  I  tell  you  that  no  self-respecting  mill  hand 
would  work  for  McClure  at  the  starvation  wages 
we've  lived  on.  Twelve  hundred  dollars  a  year! 
Why,  a  heater  over  at  the  mills  gets  twenty-five 
dollars  a  day.  A  roller — whatever  that  is — gets 
thirty.  A  puddler 


$1200  A  YEAR  37 

JEAN  [sees  her  opportunity].  A  puddler  gets 
twenty  dollars  a  day! 

STODDARD  [somewhat  startled].  How  did  you 
know  that? 

JEAN.     It's  true,  isn't  it? 

FRANCES.  And  that  little  tailor.  Didn't  he 
say  he  paid  his  presser  some  ridiculous  amount? 

JEAN.     He  said  fifty  dollars  a  week. 

STODDARD.  A  fellow  that  sews  buttons  on  pants 
gets  fifty  dollars  a  week.  I  get  twenty -five  dollars 
a  week.  We  who  are  leading  the  intellectual  life 
of  this  nation  haven't  enough  food  and  clothing. 
Gus,  our  janitor,  lives  better  and  earns  more  than 
I  do.  It  would  take  me  fifteen  minutes  to  learn 
to  do  his  work.  A  motorman  gets  sixty  cents  an 
hour.  It  pays  better  to  mind  trains  than  to  train 
minds. 

WINTHROP.  All  very  interesting,  my  boy. 
And  true,  perhaps.  But  don't  be  ridiculous. 
You  can't  become  a  labourer.  You're  a  gentleman. 

FRANCES.     Paul,  you  hot-head,  I  suppose  you'll 
be  suggesting  next  that  you  and  Jean  go  to  live 
down  on  the  Flats,  next  door  to  Miss  Tony — ah— 
[Turns  amusedly  to  JEAN.]     What  was  that  name, 
dear? 

STODDARD.    That's  just  where  she's  going  to  live. 

JEAN  [now  really  alarmed].  They'll  take  you 
back,  Paul.  This  will  blow  over. 


38  $1800  A  YEAR 

WINTHROP.  So  long  as  you  haven't  formally 
resigned. 

FRANCES.  No.  There  was  nothing  very  formal 
about  what  you  said  to  the  council. 

JEAN  [at  the  look  on  his  face].  Dear,  you're  not 
serious. 

STODDARD.  I'm  just  this  serious.  I'm  going 
down  to  the  mill  office  to-morrow  morning  to  ask 
them  to  give  me  a  job.  I've  kept  up  my  gym 
work.  [Flexes  his  arm  muscles.]  I  can  capitalize 
that  out  of  the  ruin. 

JEAN.  But  how  about  me!  What  are  we 
going  to  do? 

STODDARD.  We're  going  to  begin  to  live,  old 
girl.  We've  had  three  years  of  genteel  poverty. 
Now  we're  going  to  have  the  things  we've  wanted. 
You've  wanted  to  keep  up  your  music.  You 
couldn't.  I've  needed  books  I  hadn't  the  money 
to  buy.  We've  wanted  children  and  we  could  no 
more  afford  them  than  we  could  afford  to  buy  the 
Kohinoor. 

JEAN  [very  near  tears].  We've  been  happy  here, 
anyway — almost  happy. 

STODDARD.  You  can  be  almost  anything  but 
almost  happy.  Either  you're  happy  or  you're 
not — and  we've  not  been.  Do  you  think  I  don't 
know  how  shabby  and  out-of-date  your  clothes 
are?  Well,  I  do.  I'm  no  comic  supplement  college 


SI  200  A   YEAR  39 

professor.  Listen,  Jean.  I  sold  my  life  insurance 
policy  last  week.  You  didn't  know  that.  I 
couldn't  tell  you.  I  had  to  do  it.  Things  were 
getting  too  thick  for  me.  We  had  to  have  money, 
somehow. 

JEAN.  We'd  have  managed.  We  always  have. 
Things  will  be  brighter. 

STODDARD.  They'll  be  worse.  It's  only  the 
beginning.  I'm  quitting  this  job,  and  I've  the  right 
to  quit.  And  I'm  quitting  the  Hill  and  all  that 
goes  with  it.  If  I've  got  to  work  with  my  hands 
to  earn  a  decent  living,  then  we're  going  to  live 
down  among  the  rest  of  them.  We're  through  with 
pretence.  We're  through  giving  shoddy  little 
dinners  we  can't  afford  to  pay  for  shoddy  little 
dinners  we've  eaten  at  the  expense  of  someone  else 
who  can't  afford  them.  You've  put  enough 
thought,  and  energy,  and  nerve-strain  into  the 
scrabbling  together  of  this  little  meal  to  exhaust 
you  for  a  month.  And  for  what? 

JEAN.    But  we  had  to  do  it,  dear. 

STODDARD.  We  won't  have  to  any  more. 
We're  through  starving.  They've  not  only  starved 
us;  they've  told  me  I'm  not  free  to  teach  as  I  like 
on  my  starvation  wage.  Well,  if  I've  got  to  sell 
myself  to  old  McClure,  by  God  he's  going  to  pay 
me  for  it! 

[The  doorbell  rings.] 


40  $1200  A  YEAR   • 

JEAN  [comes  back  to  the  thought  of  her  dinner  and 

guests  with  a  start}     They're  here!     The  dinner! 

[Glances  wildly  toward  the  kitchen.     Starts  toward 

it.     Stops.]     And  Martha  isn't  back. 

FRANCES  [toward  door].     I'll  go,  dear.     Besides, 

it  isn't  nearly  seven.     They're  early. 

JEAN    [hurriedly,    aside    to    STODDARD].    Paul, 

please,  not  a  word  of  this  to  the  others.     It  would 

only  harm  you. 

STODDARD  [as  FRANCES  opens  door].    It's  too 

late  for  that.     It  can't  harm  me  now. 

[Enter  PROFESSOR  PUTNAM,  MRS.  PUTNAM, 
and,  directly  after  them,  HOWARD  SNELL 
and  MILLY  FANNING.  PUTNAM  is  older 
than  SNELL;  more  mature  in  every  way. 
There  is  about  SNELL  a  diffident  and  some 
what  crushed  look — that  of  a  man  baffled 
by  circumstances.  The  clothes  of  the  two 
men  are  neat  but  unmistakably  shabby, 
and  of  a  cut  and  style  that  went  out  six  or 
seven  years  ago.  The  two  women  are 
dowdily  dressed,  but  their  costumes  are  not 
ridiculous.  There  is  about  the  little  group 
a  certain  dignity,  in  spite  of  its  evident 
shabbiness.  MRS.  PUTNAM  is  a  bustling, 
managerial  woman.  MILLY  FANNING  is 
not  as  young  as  she  once  was.  A  rather 
wistful  figure,  with  the  look  of  the  faded 


$1200  A  YEAR  41 

fiancee.  They  enter  with  a  little  flurry  of 
arrival  and  greeting.  There  is  a  sort  of 
chorus  of  "Helios"  and  "Good  evenings". 
JEAN  comes  forward  with  an  effort,  try 
ing  to  smile.  STODDARD  makes  no  pre 
tence  at  gayety.  WINTHROP,  back,  shakes 
his  head  ominously.} 

MRS.  PUTNAM.    Now  don't  tell  us  we're  too 
early,  because  we  know  it. 

JEAN.     I'm  glad  you  are — if  you  don't  mind 
waiting  for  dinner. 

FRANCES.     You   see   father   and   I   were   even 

earlier  than  you.     [To  the  two  women.]     Do  come 

in  here  and  take  off  your  things.    [Toward  bedroom} 

PUTNAM  [to  STODDARD].     Well,  how's  the  terrible 

infant? 

STODDARD.     Then  you  know? 
SNELL.     That's  why  we  came  early.     Wanted 
to  get  here  before  Dean  Blake  and  Mrs.  Blake. 

STODDARD.     I   hardly   think   you   need    worry 
about  their  getting  here. 

[MRS.  PUTNAM,  MILLY  FANNING,  JEAN,  and 
FRANCES  exeunt  bedroom,   talking   "Did 
you  make  it  yourself?"  etc.     JEAN  glances 
back  at  STODDARD,  apprehensively.] 
PUTNAM.    They're  not  coming! 
STODDARD.     They  haven't  said  they're  not. 
SNELL.     Still,  if  what  we've  heard  about  that 


42  $1200  A   YEAR 

meeting  this  afternoon  is  true — the  dean   would 
hardly — eh,  Winthrop? 

WINTHROP.     Gossip,  my  dear  fellow,  gossip! 
STODDARD.     Here — let  me  take  those.     [Takes 
hats,  gloves,  etc.     Carries   them   to   low   bookshelf^ 
back.] 

PUTNAM.  Then  it  isn't  true.*  H'm!  Well! 
We  needn't  havejmiried  to  get  here  before  the 
dean,  then. 

[JEAN  enters  from  bedroom.     Scans  the  men's 
faces  anxiously  as  if  to  learn  from  them 
what  has  been  said  in  her  absence.] 
SNELL.     Come  on,  Stoddard.     We're  all  friends 
here.     Of  course  you  know  everybody's  talking. 
It  isn't  as  if  the  Blakes  were  here.     What  about 
the  row  this  afternoon,  h'm?   • 

[The    telephone    rings.     STODDARD    crosses 
quickly  to  answer  it,  as  the  three  women — 
FRANCES,    MRS.   PUTNAM,    and    MILLY 
FANNING — enter   from    bedroom,    having 
removed  their  hats  and  wraps.] 
MILLY  FANNING  [continuing  conversation  begun 
in  bedroom].     I  always  say  get  black.     It's  quiet 
and  at  the  same  time  it's  dressy  and  you  can  wear 
it  anywhere. 

STODDARD  [at  telephone  just  before  taking  up 
receiver].  Mrs.  Blake's  suddenly  ill.  .  .  .  Any 
takers?  [Picks  up  receiver.  The  others  stand  waiir 


$1200  A   YEAR  43 

ing  while  STODDARD,  looking  at  them  over  the  instru 
ment,  and  smiling  a  little,  talks.]     Hello.     . 
Yes,  yes,  talking.    .    .    .    Oh,  yes.     .    .     .    Well, 
I'm  sorry  to  hear  that.     .     .     ,     Too  bad.     .     . 
Nothing  serious,  I  hope.     .     .     .     No — no,  indeed. 
It  won't  inconvenience  us.     We're  sorry  not  to 
have  you,  but  there  probably  isn't  any  too  much 
to  go  round,  as  it  is.     .     .     * 

JEAN  [horrified].     Oh,  Paul,  how  could  you! 

STODDARD  [at  telephone].  Good-bye.  [Hangs 
up  receiver,  straightens  his  shoulders,  smiling  a  little.] 
I  hope  you'll  excuse  my  not  being  dressed — all  of 
you.  [He  is  looking  down  at  his  shabby  coat;  brushes 
his  sleeve  lightly]  The  tailor  wouldn't  leave  n\y 
other  suit  because  I  couldn't  pay  his  bill. 

JEAN.    Paul! 

[Follows  a  moment's  dreadful  silence.  STOD 
DARD  has  broken  an  unwritten  rule.  They 
have  never  openly  admitted  poverty  and 
debt  to  one  another.] 

STODDARD.  You  all  know  I've  only  one  decent 
suit  of  clothes,  just  as  you  have. 

PUTNAM  [rather  feebly].  You  always  will  have 
your  little  joke,  Stoddard. 

SNELL.    Ha!    Yes. 

STODDARD.  Joke  nothing!  You  see  before  you, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  a  perfect  specimen  of  the 
turned  worm. 


44  91200  A  YEAR 

JEAN  [assumes  a  gayety  that  deceives  no  one}. 
Paul's  had  a  little  unpleasantness  at  the  university, 
and  he's  cross  as  a  bear.  Let's  all  snub  him. 

FRANCES  [rushing  to  JEAN'S  aid].  Yes,  let's 
all  talk  animatedly  and  leave  him  out.  He'll  soon 
come  round. 

STODDARD.  But  I'm  not  cross.  I've  never 
felt  more  amiable  in  my  life.  Gad,  it's  glorious 
to  be  able  to  speak  the  truth  for  the  first  time  hi 
three  years ! 

MRS.  PUTNAM  [who  doesn't  believe  in  beating 
about  the  bush].  This  may  all  be  very  humorous, 
Professor  Stoddard,  but  just  what  does  it  mean? 

STODDARD.  It  means,  dear  lady,  that  I've  left  the 
free,  unshackled  intellectual  life.  From  to-morrow 
on  I  belong  to  the  downtrodden  labouring  class. 

PUTNAM.  Come,  come,  Stoddard.  You're  not 
serious.  A  little  unpleasantness  with  McClure  and 
the  council  this  afternoon  doesn't  necessarily 

JEAN.  Of  course  it  doesn't.  Paul's  nervous, 
excited,  tired 

STODDARD.  I  tell  you  I'm  leaving  the  Hill  and 
$1,200  a  year  to  go  down  to  the  mill  at  thirty  a  day. 
Come  on  with  me,  Putnam — Snell! 

MRS.  PUTNAM.  Augustus!  You'll  do  nothing 
of  the  kind! 

SNELL.  You  wouldn't  so  far  forget  the  dignity 
of  your  profession. 


91200  A  YEAR  45 

STODDARD  [until  now  he  has  been  half  jocular  in 
his  manner.  He  becomes  suddenly  very  serious  and 
strangely  quiet  in  manner}.  Look  here.  You 
came  early,  all  of  you,  because  you  wanted  to  hear 
the  truth.  Now  I'm  going  to  give  it  to  you.  If 
you  don't  like  it,  remember  you  asked  for  it.  You 
didn't  think  there  was  anything  undignified,  did 
you,  in  our  coming  forward  a  year  ago  to  ask  for 
an  increase  in  salary.  The  head  of  every  college 
in  this  university  signed  that  petition — the  College 
of  Arts,  the  College  of  Law — Medical,  Agricultural, 
Engineering,  Sciences — all  of  them.  And  when 
it  was  refused  us  there  was  nothing  undignified  in 
our  crawling  back  to  our  starvation  jobs.  No.  We 
weren't  too  dignified  to  ask  for  what  we  wanted, 
but  we  were  too  dignified  to  demand  it.  Nine 
colleges  in  this  university.  Nine  men,  one  from 
each  of  these  nine  colleges,  set  down  on  an  island 
together,  could  start  a  civilization.  Every  autumn 
a  thousand  boys  worth  a  few  dollars  each  march 
into  Dinsmore  University.  Every  June  a  thousand 
doctors  and  lawyers,  engineers  and  chemists, 
architects  and  agriculturists,  march  out.  And 
the  difference  in  usefulness  of  those  two  groups  is 
the  measure  of  our  use  to  America.  For  civiliza 
tion  isn't  machinery  or  wealth,  but  the  skill,  and 
the  training,  and  the  spirit  of  men.  The  most 
important  and  dignified  profession  in  the  world 


46  $1200  A  YEAR 

receives  less  consideration  from  the  world  than 
does  the  lowest  form  of  labour.  And  who's  to 
blame?  We  are!  We  talk  of  the  dignity  of  our 
profession,  but  we've  never  brought  to  it  enough 
dignity  to  make  the  world  respect  it.  It's  the 
man  with  the  muscle  who  gets  the  money.  But 
you  can't  starve  the  brains  of  a  nation  without 
killing  the  nation  itself.  I  believe  that  as  surely 
as  I  believe  in  life  itself,  and  I'm  going  down  to 
Cyrus  McClure's  mill,  not  to  earn  thirty  dollars 
a  day  but  to  prove  that  I  believe  that. 

SNELL.  You'll  never  make  the  world  believe 
that.  They'll  laugh  at  you. 

STODDARD.  Let  them!  They've  never  taken 
me  seriously  in  shiny  broadcloth.  I'll  try  them 
in  overalls. 

PUTNAM.  You  talk  like  a  hot-headed  young 
fool,  Stoddard.  Sleep  on  it.  You'll  change  your 
mind  to-morrow. 

STODDARD.  I've  slept  on  it  for  three  years. 
I'm  awake  now.  And  I'm  going  to  stay  awake. 
Here  Snell!  You  and  Milly  Fanning  have  wanted 
to  marry  for  nine  years,  haven't  you? 

JEAN.     Paul,  don't  I 

SNELL.     Look  here,  Stoddard ! 

STODDARD.  You  wanted  the  truth.  You're 
known  in  the  university  as  the  Perpetual  Fiance. 
Your  salary's  nine  hundred  a  year.  And  because 


$1200  A  YEAR  47 

no  two  people  can  live  decently  on  nine  hundred 
a  year  you've  seen  Milly  Fanning  change  from 
the  prettiest  girl  on  University  Hill  to  the  hopeless, 
crushed  woman  she  is  to-day.  The  best  years  of 
your  life  are  gone.  They'll  never  come  back. 
[MiLLY  FANNING,  with  a  little  broken  cry,  turns  her 
face  away  from  them  all.]  Putnam,  you  and  Emily 
have  one  of  the  four  babies  on  the  Hill.  But 
you  couldn't  have  had  it  in  your  youth,  when  you 
were  young,  and  strong,  and  virile.  No,  you 
waited  fifteen  years  for  it,  and  now  you  wonder  why 
it's  weak,  and  puny,  and  fretful.  It  hasn't  had  a 
fair  chance.  Well,  I  want  to  tell  you,  Putnam — 
and  you,  Snell — that  if  submitting  to  that  kind  of 
thing  is  what  you  call  dignified,  then  damn  dignity! 
[The  outer  door  is  flung  open  and  MARTHA 

enters,  breathless  and  wild-eyed,   a  bottle 

of  cream  in  her  hand.] 

MARTHA  [panting].  Oh,  Mis'  Stoddard,  ma'am, 
I'm  that  sorry!  I  been  in  every  delicatessen  on 
the  Hill.  [Crosses  to  kitchen,  talking  breathlessly]. 
Baumgartner's  didn't  have  no  whipping  cream. 
Schwartz's  didn't  have  no  whipping  cream.  I 
went  way  over  to  Meisenberg's  and  they  didn't 

have  no  whip [Opens  kitchen  door.    A  cloud 

of  smoke  meets  her,  together  with  the  fumes  of  the 
burned  roast.]  Oh,  my  God,  you  ain't  been  near 
the  roast!  [Rushes  to  kitchen.] 


48  $1200  A  YEAR 

JEAN.  I  forgot  to  baste  it.  [Starts  toward 
kitchen.] 

MARTHA.     It's  burned  to  a  cinder. 

JEAN.  The  dinner's  ruined.  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry! 
[The  others  look  as  a  group  of  people  do  who  are  hun 
gry  and  have  been  cheated  out  of  their  dinner.] 

FRANCES.  Can't  we  do  something  with  it? 
Cut  off  the  top  slices. 

MRS.  PUTNAM.  H'm.  [The  protest  of  an  ex 
perienced  housekeeper.] 

STODDARD.  No.  We  won't  serve  cinders.  Here, 
Martha.  Run  around  the  corner  and  get  a  steak— 
a  big  one. 

MARTHA.  Steak!  It'd  cost  yuh  a  fortune  for  a 
crowd  like  this. 

STODDARD  [takes  out  his  wallet,  selects  a  bill,  and 
stuffs  it  into  her  hand,  giving  her  a  little  push  toward 
the  door].  Here.  Take  that.  And  spend  it  all. 
Quick! 

MARTHA  [looks  at  the  bill\.  Ten  dollars!  For 
a  steak! 

STODDARD.  That's  all  right,  Martha.  I'm  not 
a  college  professor  any  more.  I'm  a  mill  hand. 
Make  it  a  T-bone  sirloin. 

Curtain 


ACT  H 


ACT  n 

SCENE:  The  STODDARDS'  living  room  down  on  the 
Flats.  The  Flats  is  that  section  of  Wickley,  Pa., 
in  which  the  mill  hands  live.  It  is  in  direct  con 
trast  with  the  Hill  Section,  occupied  by  the  univer 
sity  professors  and  their  families. 

The  room  is  luxuriously  and  tastefully  furn 
ished.  There  are  lamps,  books,  flowers.  Modern, 
well-made  furniture  is  so  arranged  as  to  give  the 
apartment  a  restful,  home-like  air.  A  small 
grand  piano  replaces  the  old  golden-oak  upright. 
There  are  low  bookshelves  against  the  wall,  back. 
The  main  doorway,  leading  to  the  outer  hall, 
divides  the  bookshelves.  The  portrait  of  GOVERNOR 
GAMALIEL  WINTHROP  occupies  much  the  same 
position  as  in  the  STODDARDS'  little  flat  on  the 
Hill.  For  the  rest,  the  room  speaks  of  prosperity 
and  well  being.  A  framed  photograph  of  FRANCES 
WINTHROP  on  the  piano.  At  the  left  is  a  door  lead- 
Ing  to  the  dining  room.  Another  to  bedroom,  right. 

As  the  curtain  rises  MARTHA  is  in  the  act 
of  turning  on  one  of  the  two  soft-shaded  lamps. 
The  other  is  already  glowing  cozily  at  the  side  of 

51 


52  $1200  A  YEAR 

the  piano.  MRS.  CHRIS  ZSUPNIK,  TONY'S 
mother,  who  lives  in  the  flat  upstairs,  is  seated  in  a 
deep  chair  engaged  in  conversation  with  MARTHA. 
She  is  a  stout  woman  of  the  foreign-born  labour 
ing  class  type.  She  talks  with  a  thick  accent 
and  in  clumsy  idiom.  She  is  wearing  a  shapeless 
house  dress  and  a  kitchen  apron.  She  and  MAR 
THA  are  apparently  good  friends.  MARTHA  shakes 
out  a  sofa  pillow,  straightens  a  book,  wipes  an 
end  of  the  table  with  a  corner  of  her  apron  to  rid 
it  of  imaginary  dust.  Blows  away  another  fleck 
of  dust  from  the  table  top.] 

MARTHA.  A  body  just  can't  keep  nothin'  clean 
down  here  with  all  this  smoke  and  soot  from  the 
mill.  It's  dust,  dust,  dust  all  day  long.  I 
cleaned  this  place  thorough  this  morning,  with  a 
vac'um,  and  now  look  at  that!  [Runs  a  quick 
finger  over  the  table  top  and  holds  it  up  for  MRS. 
ZSUPNIK'S  inspection.] 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.  What  for  you  clean  all  time! 
I  ain't  see  such  peoples  for  clean. 

MARTHA.     You  got  to  clean  to  keep  clean. 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.  Such  little  furniture  you  got 
here  it  ain't  work. 

MARTHA.  Little  furniture!  What's  the  woman 
mean,  now? 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK  [almost  incoherent  in  her  efforts  to 


A  YEAR  53 

make  her  meaning  clear}.  It  is  not'ing!  Not'ing! 
[A  wild  wave  of  the  arms  that  includes  the  entire 
apartment.]  Not  enough  furnish.  Like  here. 
[Waddles  heavily  over  to  the  long,  graceful  library 
table  whose  top  is  bare  except  for  a  lamp  and  a  bowl 
of  flowers.}  Here  is  all — naked.  Ugh! 

MARTHA.  Well,  sure  it  is.  What's  wrong  with 
it? 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.  Not  enough.  Like  poor  people 
got.  Where  is  parlour  set?  Where  is  big  electric 
light?  Where  is  picture?  Where  is  pillow?  Where 
is  victrola?  [Runs  over  to  where  two  candles  in  hand 
some  candlesticks  ornament  either  side  of  a  long  wall- 
mirror.]  Like  in  old  kaun-tree  candles.  Candles 
is  for  poor  peoples. 

MARTHA.  Go  on!  You  don't  know.  It's 
swell  to  have  a  room  bare-lookin'.  That's  the 
style.  The  less  you  got  in  a  room  the  sweller  you 
are.  An'  candles  is  all  the  go. 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.  Me  got  plush  furniture,  lace 
curtains,  table  cover  fringe  like  so  [indicating 
about  afoot  of  fringe]. 

MARTHA.  Your  place!  My  God,  it's  like  a 
auction  room.  You  can't  see  the  room  for  the 
furniture. 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.     Me — I  like. 

MARTHA.  Well,  I  ain't  sayin'  I'm  so  stuck  on 
this  no  thin'  in  a  room,  myself,  but  two  three  chairs 


54  $1200  A   YEAR 

and  mebbe  a  pianny.  Always  looks  to  me  like 
you  run  out  of  money  before  you  finished  furnishin' 
up,  like. 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.  Sure.  [Then  waves  a  trium 
phant  hand  toward  dining  room.]  You  eat  out 
tablecloth! 

MARTHA.     Oh,  you  poor  ignorant  furriner,  you! 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.     Not  oilcloth  even. 

MARTHA.  Oilcloth!  Why  eatin'  off  a  bare 
table  is  the  height  of  elegance.  Just  doilies. 
Why,  say,  they  was  a  English  Perfessor  come  to 
the  college  once,  for  two  years,  from  across  the 
ocean  an'  do  you  know  what? 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK  [fascinated,  her  hands  rolled 
comfortably  in  her  apron  across  her  stomach].  W'at? 

MARTHA.  They  had  two  three  children  an' 
was  well-to-do.  But  they  was  so  swell  they  didn't 
even  set  no  table  at  all  for  breakfast!  Every  thin' 
on  a  side  table,  keepin'  warm  with  hot  water  be 
neath,  an'  everybody  helpin'  themselves  an'  not 
even  no  servants  to  wait  on,  that's  how  swell  they 
was! 

[MRS.  ZSUPNIK  shrugs  expressive  shoulders 
and  indicates  extreme  distaste  for  any  such 
people  or  proceedings.  She  even  shudders 
once.] 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.     Crazy  kaun-tree! 

MARTHA.     Not   a-tall!    It's   just   how   you're 


$1800  A  YEAR  55 

i 

used  to  it.  Now  dressin's  the  same.  You  an' 
your  Tony,  you  think  when  you're  all  dolled  up 
like  a  Christmas  tree,  with  everythin'  on  but 
lighted  candles,  w  'y  you  think  you're  dressed  swell. 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.  My  Tony  she  got  white  shoe — 
feather  in  hat — fur  coat — pink  dress 

MARTHA.  There  yuh  are!  Anybody  can  put 
on  pink  an'  people  know  what  they're  wearin'. 
But  when  you  can  put  on  black  an'  one  them  quiet 
little  hats  an'  yet  have  people  turn  to  look  at  you — 
that's  dressin'. 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.  Mrs.  Stoddard — she  go  like 
that. 

MARTHA.  If  I  do  say  it,  she's  got  wonderful 
taste.  Everything  dark  an'  plain  an'  yet  she 
looks  like  a  million  dollars.  Them  sleeves  in  her 
new  suit  fit  like  they  was  painted  on  her  arm. 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.  I  guess  she  ain't  come  home 
soon  I  got  cook  my  supper  sure. 

MARTHA.     What  you  goin'  have  that's  good? 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.     Goulash — noodles 

MARTHA.     My  land,  you  folks  eat  greasy! 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.     Not  like  you,  grass  all  time. 

MARTHA.  That  ain't  grass.  That's  salad — 
lettuce. 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.  You  cook  American.  Me  cook 
Bohemian,  eat  much  better. 

MARTHA.     My  folks  they  like  their  steaks,  an* 


56  $1200  A  YEAR 

their  chops,  an'  their  salads.  Yuh  could  get  a  ton 
of  your  goulash  for  the  price  of  a  really  good  cut  of 
steak  now. 

MBS.  ZSUPNIK.  Mr.  Steve  McClure  he  t'ink 
me  cook  swell.  He  come  eat  by  us  much.  Tony 
she  laugh  make  fun  how  he  eat  my  coffee  cake. 
So  big  piece.  [Indicates  about  a  square  yard  of 
coffee  cake.] 

MARTHA.  Some  class  to  your  Tony  goin'  with 
Steve  McClure. 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.  My  Tony  she  got  lots  fellas. 
[With  great  animation  and  very  skittish.]  In  old 
kawn-tree  me  just  like  my  Tony.  Many  year 
back.  Me  some  kiddo! 

MARTHA.  I  bet  you  was?  You  ain't  so  bad 
yet,  when  you  got  your  corsets  on.  Last  Sunday 
when  you  was  down  here  with  your  man,  wearin* 
that  fur  coat,  you  might  have  been  Tony's  own 
sister  for  looks. 

MRS.  ZSUPNTK  [plainly  delighted,  wagging  Jier 
head}.  Suret'ing! 

MARTHA.  I  got  to  be  gettin'  my  folks'  supper, 
too. 

MRS.  ZstfPNiK.  My  man  he  come  home  hungry. 
Terrible! 

MARTHA.  It's  the  same  way  with  the  Perfesser. 
I  fill  his  lunch  box  mornings  enough  for  a  horse. 
San'wiches,  cheese,  pie,  fruit,  coffee,  an'  first  thing 


$1200  A  YEAR  57 

he  says  when  he  comes  in  the  door  in  the  evenin*, 
he  says,  "Well,"  he  says,  "what  you  got  good  for 
dinner,  Martha?" 

[The  doorbell  rings.  MARTHA  goes  to  hall, 
opens  door.  MRS.  ZSUPNEK  is  still  seated 
comfortably,  but  is  about  to  rise  and  leave. 
FRANCES  WINTHROP  enters] 

MARTHA.  I  haven't  seen  you  for  months,  Miss 
Frances. 

FRANCES.    I've  been  in  Boston,  visiting. 

MARTHA.  The  folks'll  be  glad  to  see  you. 
They  ain't  home  yet.  Just  come  in,  sit  down,  and 
make  yourself  at  home. 

FRANCES.  What  a  frightful  neighbourhood. 
I've  waded  through  garbage  cans  and  babies  to 
get  here. 

MARTHA.  It  ain't  so  bad  when  you  get  used 
to  the  smell. 

FRANCES  [looks  about  the  pretty  room  in  surprise]. 
Why,  this  room  is  charming!  [For  the  first  time 
sees  MRS.  ZSUPNIK.] 

MARTHA.  Meet  Mrs.  Zsupnik,  Miss  Frances. 
[FRANCES,  startled,  bows  very  frigidly.] 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.  Please'  for  meet  you.  How  do? 
[Puts  out  her  hand  which  FRANCES  evidently  does  not 
see.] 

FRANCES.    Why,  who? Is  this  one  of  your 

friends,  Martha? 


58  $1200  A  YEAR 

MARTHA.  Oh,  Mrs.  Zsupnik's  our  upstairs 
neighbour.  She's  a  friend  of  the  folks. 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.  My  man  he  work  by  Stoddard 
in  mill,  sure. 

[FRANCES  is  speechless] 

MARTHA.  You  see,  the  Perfesser  he's  head  of  a 
whole  gang  of  'em  now.  I  don't  know  what  they 
call  him.  Foreman  or  something.  Elegant  pay. 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.  My  man  he  get  big  money,  too. 
He  boss  puddler. 

MARTHA.  Oh,  sure.  But  he  ain't  got  the 
brains  of  the  Perfessor.  You  couldn't  expect  it  in 
a  poor  ignorant  furriner. 

FRANCES.  Martha,  who  were  those  men  down 
stairs  in  the  doorway?  And  one  woman.  When 
I  came  in  they  asked  me  where  I  was  going.  And 
when  I  told  them  I  was  calling  on  the  Stoddards 
they  wanted  to  know  who  I  was  and  what  I  was 
coming  for  and  a  man  with  a  camera 

MARTHA  [with  fine  contempt}.  Oh,  them  ain't 
nothin'.  On  V  reporters.  Always  hangin' around 
and  askin'  questions  and  takin'  pictures.  When 
the  Perfesser  comes  home  they  just  jump  at  him 
but  he  jams  right  through  'em,  laughin',  and  gets 
by,  they  hangin'  on  to  his  coat  tails.  Them 
women  reporters  is  the  worst. 

FRANCES  .    Dreadful ! 

MARTHA.    They  had  my  picture  in  last  week. 


91200  A  YEAR  59 

All  the  papers.     I  forgot  about  'em  and  run  down 
on  a  errand  in  my  kitchen  apron  an'  there  they 
was.     I  wouldn't  of  minded  if  I'd  been  dressed  up 
decent.     Did  you  see  it? 
FRANCES.    Yes,  I  saw  it. 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.  I  go  now.  My  man  he  is 
come  home  pretty  soon  for  supper.  [To  FRANCES 
amiably.]  Well,  I  say  good-bye  now. 

[FRANCES,  still  speechless,  inclines  her  head 
ever  so  slightly.  MRS.  ZSUPNIK  again 
offers  to  shake  hands,  this  time  unavoid 
ably.  FRANCES  extends  the  barest  tips  of 
her  gloved  fingers.  MRS.  ZSUPNIK  pumps 
this  limp  burden  up  and  down  vigorously. 
MRS.  ZSUPNIK  goes  toward  door.  FRANCES 
stares  after  her.] 

MARTHA  [heartily].  Drop  in  again  when  the 
folks  is  home,  Mrs.  Zsupnik. 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.  Sure  t'ing.  [MRS.  ZSUPNIK 
goes.] 

FRANCES  [breathlessly].  Martha,  Martha!  Do 
you  mean  to  tell  me  that  people  like  that  are 
in  the  habit  of  coming  into  this  house?  As 
callers ! 

MARTHA.  Oh,  the  Zsupniks  is  in  an*  out  all 
the  time.  I  never  saw  such  people  for  visitin'. 
Old  Zsupnik  an'  the  Perfesser  they're  great 
friends,  they  are.  Sit  an'  chin  by  the  hour  about 


60  $1200  A  YEAR 

labour,  an'  politics,  an*  I  don'  know  what  all. 
And  laugh!  Old  Zsupnik  he's  quite  a  cut-up. 

FRANCES.     It's  incredible! 

MARTHA  [not  quite  understanding].  Oh,  it  ain't 
as  bad  as  that,  I  wouldn't  say. 

FRANCES.  You  don't  mean  they  actually  like 
it  down  here! 

MARTHA.  Well,  they  do  an'  they  don't.  Or, 
mebbe,  they  did  an'  they  don't.  I  dunno.  Now 
the  Perfesser,  he  seems  to  like  it  elegant.  I  never 
see  him  so  jolly  as  lately. 

FRANCES.    And  Mrs.  Stoddard? 

MARTHA  [doubtfully].  I  ain't  sayin'.  She  was 
like  a  child  at  first  with  a  new  doll.  Buyin*  her 
pretty  things,  and  fixin'  'em  the  way  she  liked.  I 
bet  she's  had  everything  in  this  here  room  moved 
eleven  times,  anyway.  The  pianny  used  t'  be 
where  the  sofy  is,  an'  the  sofy  used  to  be  where  the 
table— 

FRANCES.    But  now? 

MARTHA.  I  dunno.  She  started  with  her 
music  lessons.  And  she  got  some  new  dresses 
make  her  look  a  fashion  plate.  But — I  dunno. 
Mebbe  now  you're  back  she'll  have  more  comp'ny 
like. 

FRANCES  [almost  as  if  talking  aloud  to  herself]. 
Then  they  haven't  come  here.  [Almost  a  whisper.] 
Cats. 


$1200  A  YEAR  61 

MARTHA  [very  inquisitive].  What's  that,  Miss 
Frances? 

FRANCES.  I  say  you  evidently  like  it  here — 
with  such  informal  neighbours. 

MARTHA.  It  ain't  what  I'm  used  to.  But 
I've  known  sorrow  since  I  last  seen  you.  My 
man  gone.  An'  my  eldest  that  was  earnin'  such 

elegant  money  on  the  milk  route [Weeps  into 

a  corner  of  her  apron.] 

FRANCES.     Dead,  too!    Oh,  I'm  so  sorry 

MARTHA.  No — married.  Married  an'  takes 
the  bread,  you  might  say,  right  out  of  my  mouth. 
That's  why  I'm  working  down  here.  The  wages  is 
wages,  I  will  say.  An'  it's  a  home.  But  I'm  used 
to  mixin'  with  class  on  the  Hill.  These  jabberin' 
furriners  ain't  no  comp'ny  for  college  folks. 

[The  doorbell  rings.  MARTHA  goes  to  door, 
FRANCES,  to  piano.  Sits.  STEVEN  Mc- 
CLURE  comes  in  followed  by  MARTHA.] 

STEVEN.  Martha,  is  Tony  down  here?  I  was 
just  upstairs  and  she's  not  there. 

MARTHA.    Didn't  you  meet  her  ma  goin'  up? 

STEVEN.    No. 

MARTHA.  I  guess  she  went  the  back  stairs. 
No,  Tony  ain't  here.  Guess  she  ain't  home  from 
work  yet.  Everybody's  late  to-night.  My  folks 
ain't  home  yet  neither. 

[FRANCES  rises  from  her  seat  at  the  piano. 


62  $1200  A  YEAR 

STEVEN  sees  her,  goes  to  her.  MARTHA 
exits  to  dining  room.] 

STEVEN.  Hello,  Frances!  I  thought  you  were 
still  in  Boston. 

FRANCES.    I  got  back  just  yesterday. 

STEVEN.    Nice  time? 

FRANCES  [rather  dubiously].  Oh — yes,  I  stopped 
with  Aunt  Abigail  Winthrop.  Of  course  she's 
a  dear  but — but  terribly — ah 

STEVEN.    Winthropian? 

FRANCES.  I  wasn't  going  to  say  just  that.  And 
of  course  it's  insulting  that  you  should  say  it. 
But  I  suppose  that's  it.  She  won't  admit  the 
existence  of  the  automobile.  Still  drives  daily  in 
a  shiny  little  boxlike  thing  behind  two  fat  horses; 
and  Jonas,  who  is  eighty  at  least,  perched  on  the 
box  all  wrapped  in  robes  and  collars  like  a  mummy. 

STEVEN.  It  doesn't  sound  very  gay.  You 
were  gone  a  frightfully  long  time. 

FRANCES  [quickly].     Did  you  think  so? 

STEVEN.     Mrs.  Stoddard  said  she  missed  you. 

FRANCES   [disappointed].     Oh. 

STEVEN.  Have  you  seen  Mrs.  Stoddard?  But 
of  course. 

FRANCES.  No,  I  haven't.  You  see,  I  left  for 
Boston  just  after  they — just  after  Paul 

STEVEN.     Then  you  haven't  been  here  before! 

FRANCES.     I  got  back  only  this  morning. 


$1200  A  YEAR  63 

STEVEN  [all  enthusiasm].  Isn't  it  wonderful — 
the  things  he  has  done!  How  long  has  it  been 
since  you  left?  Only  three  or  four  months,  isn't  it? 

FRANCES.     Yes. 

STEVEN.  And  in  that  time  he's  become  a  na 
tional  figure — famous! 

FRANCES.  If  having  your  photograph  in  every 
newspaper  and  magazine  in  the  country,  with 
minute  details  as  to  what  you  wear,  and  think, 
and  eat  for  breakfast  is  being  a  national  figure 

STEVEN.  Why,  those  are  only  the  accessories. 
It's  what  he  has  done  that  makes  him  a  big  man. 
I  don't  see  how  he  stands  it.  He's  down  in  the 
mill  all  day,  every  day,  working  like  an  engine. 
Every  Saturday  night  and  twice  every  Sunday  he 
speaks  somewhere.  He  was  in  Boston  last  month. 
Did  you  hear  him? 

FRANCES.    No.    Aunt  Abby  wouldn't  allow 

STEVEN.     It  was  one  of  his  best. 

FRANCES.  I've  read  most  of  Paul's  speeches 
and  interviews.  And  the  things  he  says  about 
your  father! 

STEVEN  [all  enthusiasm].  Aren't  they  glorious! 
That  one  where  he  says  that  dad  is  paying  more 
in  one  day  to  the  men  who  turn  out  steel  bars  in 
his  mills  than  he  pays  in  a  week  to  the  men  who 
are  turning  out  his  son  for  use  in  the  world. 
Meaning  me. 


64  $1^00  A  YEAR 

FRANCES.  I  can't  see  why  you  should  be  so 
enthusiastic  about  that. 

STEVEN.  But  it's  true.  In  fact,  I  typed  that 
very  speech. 

FRANCES.     Typed  it? 

STEVEN.  I'm  acting  as  his  secretary  two  hours 
a  day.  You  never  saw  such  a  mass  of  letters,  and 
telegrams,  and  clippings  as  he  gets. 

FRANCES.     But  how  about  your  classes? 

STEVEN.  The  university's  only  running  on 
three  cylinders.  Half  the  faculty  has  left,  you 
know.  I'm  down  here  a  lot  of  the  time.  Jolly 
little  flat,  isn't  it? 

FRANCES.    If  you  don't  mind  the  neighbourhood ! 

STEVEN.  What's  wrong  with  the  neighbour 
hood?  Of  course  it  isn't  the  Hill,  but— 

FRANCES.  The  noise,  the  filth,  the  people! 
Those  unkempt  women  leaning  out  of  the  windows 
and  screaming  to  each  other.  One  of  them  was 
actually  here  in  this  room  when  I  came  in.  She 
seemed  to  be  perfectly  at  home  here.  A  Mrs. 
Zsup something  or  other.  Awful. 

STEVEN.     Mrs.  Zsupnik.     Tony's  mother. 

FRANCES.  Tony!  Oh,  yes.  I  forgot.  You 
go  in  for  Zsupniks,  too,  don't  you? 

STEVEN.  Frances,  you  don't  know  these  people 
as  I  do. 

FRANCES.     I  don't  want  to  know  them. 


$1200  A  YEAR  65 

STEVEN.  If  you  could  come  down  here,  and 
live  among  them. 

FRANCES.     Heaven  forbid ! 

STEVEN.  That's  the  trouble  with  you,  Frances. 
You  go  through  life  as  you  picked  your  way 
through  those  streets — afraid  that  you  might  soil 
your  skirts. 

FRANCES.  We  Winthrops  have  never  gone  in 
for  slumming.  I  wonder  how  Jean  stands  it. 

STEVEN.  You  Winthrops  are  like  the  Chinese. 
You  spend  your  lives  burning  incense  to  the  memory 
of  your  ancestors.  [Points  to  portrait  of  GOVER 
NOR  WINTHROP  on  wall.]  That  old  Plymouth 
Rock  up  there  has  been  dead  three  hundred  years 
and  you're  still  afraid  of  him. 

FRANCES  [looks  up  at  the  grim  portrait].  Poor 
old  Governor.  How  grim  and  horrified  he  looks! 
No  wonder,  at  finding  himself  down  here  on  the 
Flats  among  the — Zsupniks. 

STEVEN.  He's  been  sniffing  incense  so  long  it'll 
do  him  good  to  smell  a  little  garlic. 

FRANCES.    Aren't  you  just  the  least  bit  rude? 

STEVEN  [all  contrition] .  I'm  sorry,  Frances .  But 
you — 1  don't  know — you  always  make  me  feel  so  in 
ferior — so — so  young.  And  I'm  older  than  you  are. 

FRANCES.  I  see.  You  prefer  a  girl  you  can 
patronize. 

[MARTHA  enters  from  dining  room.] 


66  91800  A  YEAR 

MARTHA.     Tony  just  yelled  down  the  dumb 
waiter  to  ask  was  you  here,  Mr.  Steven. 
STEVEN.     I'll  run  up. 

MARTHA.     No.     She's  comin'  down.     She  said 
somethin'  about  a  new  hat  to  show  Mis'  Stoddard. 
STEVEN  [hurriedly].     I'll  go  to  the  door. 

[MARTHA  exits  dining  room.  STEVEN  to  hall 
door.  FRANCES  over  to  piano  in  corner. 
STEVEN'S  voice,  very  low,  can  be  heard  in 
hall,  off.] 

TONY  [very  loud}.     Who?     [ToNY  enters,  followed 
by  STEVEN.]     Who's  she?     [Sees  FRANCES.]     Oh! 
[In  her  hand  TONY  has  a  very  magnificent 
new  hat  of  velvet  with  a  blue  ostrich  plume. 
It  is  the  kind  of  hat  that  FRANCES  WIN- 
THROP  would  sooner  die  than  wear.] 
STEVEN.     You  remember  Miss  Winthrop,  don't 
you,  Tony? 

TONY  [mischievously,  pretends  to  have  forgotten]. 
I  don't  believe  I've  had  the  pleasure.  [Giggles.] 

[FRANCES  is  visibly  taken  aback  at  this.] 
STEVEN.     Why,  yes,  Tony.     Don't  you  remem 
ber    just    yesterday    you    were    looking    at    that 
photograph    of    Miss    Winthrop    on    the    piano. 

And  you  said [Stops,  confused.] 

TONY  [pretends  dimly  to  remember  now].  Oh, 
yeh,  I  said  she  was  a  ringer  for  the  old  bird  on  the 
wall.  The  one  discovered  America. 


91200  A  YEAR  67 

FRANCES  [ignoring  TONY  entirely,  turns  to 
STEVEN].  I  see  now  where  you've  acquired  your 
interesting  point  of  view. 

STEVEN  [oratorically].  What  can  history  mean 
to  this  child  of  the  mill!  How  can  you  expect— 

TONY.  Oh,  my  God!  There  he  goes  again  like 
I  was  a  freak  in  a  circus.  [After  the  manner  of  a 
barker  in  a  sideshow.]  Step  into  the  tent,  ladies 
and  gents,  an*  see  the  marvel  of  the  age !  Tony,  the 
wild  woman,  captured  alive  on  the  Flats  of  Wickley. 

Step  up  an'  see  how  she  walks,  talks 

[MARTHA  appears  in  dining  room  door.     She 
has  a  mixing  spoon  in  one  hand.] 

MARTHA.  Tony,  stop  your  carryin'  on!  I 
heard  you  back  in  the  kitchen. 

TONY.  Come  on  in,  Martha.  Just  in  time  for 
the  big  show!  Steve's  going  to  make  a  speech. 
Go  on,  Steve,  like  you  commenced.  Go  on. 
"This  poor  child  of  the  mills!"  [To  MARTHA.] 
That's  me. 

MARTHA.  Hush  your  foolishness.  This  poor 
child  of  the  kitchen's  got  her  dinner  to  get  an' 
no  time  to  waste  on  your  crazy  doin's. 

FRANCES  [seizes  this  chance  to  escape  from  TONY]. 
Martha,  I've  a  message  for  you  from  Mrs.  Blake. 

MARTHA.     Have  you,  now?     Tell  me. 

FRANCES.  I'll  come  in  and  talk  to  you.  [Crosses 
to  dining  room  door.] 


68  $1^00  A  YEAR 

TONY  [puts  on  her  new  hat  and  stands' deliberately 
in  FRANCES'  way].  How  d'yuh  like  my  new 
hat?  H'm?  [Turns  her  audacious  little  head  this 
way  and  that.]  How  d'yuh  like  it? 

FRANCES  [every  inch  a  Winthrop.  Regards  the 
hat  with  the  look  she  would  bestow  upon  a  museum 
curiosity}.  It  suits  you — perfectly.  In  fact,  I 
can't  imagine  any  one  but  you  buying  it.  [FRANCES 
exits  dining  room  with  MARTHA.] 

TONY  [looks  after  her,  balefully.  Snatches  the  hat 
off.  Then  with  a  great  deal  of  elegance  and  some 
venom,  imitates  FRANCES'  manner].  Ah,  yes.  I 
see  now  where  you've  acquired  your  interesting 
point  of  view.  [Minces  toward  dining  room  door 
in  exaggerated  imitation  of  FRANCES'  walk.] 

STEVEN.     Tony,  she'll  hear  you !     She'll  see  you ! 

TONY.  Let  her!  What  do  I  care!  She's  got 
a  nerve  goin'  around  actin'  like  Elsie  Ferguson— 
in  them  clothes. 

STEVEN.  Look  here,  Tony.  Miss  Winthrop's 
a  very  dear  friend  of  mine. 

TONY.  Yeh?  Well,  you  got  to  quit  makin'  a 
monkey  out  of  me  in  front  of  your  very  dear 
friends,  see?  I'm  as  good  as  her,  an'  better,  any 
day.  Why,  this  here  hat  cost  sixteen  dollars. 

STEVEN.  Dear  child,  to  a  girl  like  Frances 
Winthrop  clothes  mean  very  little. 

TONY.     Oh,  they  do,  do  they!     It's  a  wonder 


$1800  A  YEAR  69 

that  stuck-up  nose  of  hern  ain't  wore  flat  from 
bein'  pressed  up  against  store  windows.  I  bet 
she  dreams  about  a  fur  coat  three  times  a  week, 
reg'lar.  No,  she  don't  care  no  more  for  clothes 
than  she  does  for  her  right  hand,  she  don't. 

STEVEN.     I  won't  listen  to  this,  Tony. 

TONY.  Besides,  if  I  was  as  stuck  on  a  fella 
as  she  is  on  you,  I'd  go  out  an'  get  him,  I  would, 
'stead  of 

STEVEN.     Stop  it,  Tony! 

TONY.  I  will  not.  Anybody  could  see  she's 
batty  about  you.  Every  time  she  looks  at  me 
she  just  registers  hate  like  Theda  Bara. 

[The  outer  door  slams.  PAUL  STODDARD 
enters.  He  is  dressed  like  a  labourer. 
He  carries  a  dinner  pail  and  the  evening 
paper.} 

STODDARD.    Hello!    What's  all  this! 

TONY.  Steve  an'  me  in  the  third  reel  of  Tony 
the  Beautiful  Mill  Hand. 

STEVEN.    Tony — please 

STODDARD  [good  humour  edly].  Goon.  It  sounds 
like  a  thriller  to  me. 

[MARTHA  enters  from  dining  room.] 

MARTHA.     I  thought  it  was  you  I  heard. 

STODDARD  [makes  as  though  to  toss  her  his  dinner 
pail].  Catch,  Martha! 

MARTHA.     Oh,    for    the    land's    sakes!     Don't 


70  $1200  A  YEAR 

throw  it!     I  couldn't  catch  a  feather  bed.     [Takes 
pail  from  STODDARD.] 

STODDARD.  What  have  you  got  for  supper, 
Martha?  I'm  starved. 

MARTHA  [opens  top  of  dinner  pail.  Peers  in]. 
Bare  as  the  palm  of  my  hand.  [Goes  to  dining  room 
door.  Calls  in.]  It's  him.  He's  here.  [MARTHA 
exits  dining  room  with  pail.] 

STODDARD.  Oh,  Jean's  home!  [Goes  toward 
dining  room.] 

[FRANCES  enters.    STEVEN  and  TONY  up. 
They  talk  inaudibly.    STEVEN  very  earnest, 
TONY  tossing  her  head.] 
FRANCES.     Paul! 

STODDARD  [surprised  and  glad\.  Hello,  Frances! 
I  didn't  know  you'd  come  back.  It's  good  to 
see  you. 

FRANCES.     I  got  back  this  morning. 
STODDARD.     You're  prettier  than  ever.     Boston 
agrees  with  you.     Is  father  with  you? 

FRANCES.  No.  He  was  to  meet  me  here  at 
half -past  four. 

STODDARD.     It's  five  now. 

FRANCES.  I  know.  I  was  late.  I  thought 
father  would  be  waiting  for  me.  He's  probably 
lost  in  this  terrible  neighbourhood. 

STODDARD.    Oh,  come,  now,  it  isn't  as  bad  as  that. 
FRANCES.     I'm  sorry.     I  didn't  mean 


91200  A  YEAR  71 

[Enter  CHRIS  ZSUPNIK.     A  typical  foreign- 
born  mill  hand9  stocky,  broad-shouldered, 
with    a    heavy,    clumping    walk.     He    is 
dressed    in    baggy,    nondescript    working 
clothes.     About  forty -eight  years  old  with  a 
walrus  moustache  and  a  good-natured  grin. 
In  both  hands  he  carefully  carries  a  deep 
bowl  covered  with  a  fringed  red  napkin.] 
ZSUPNIK.     Oo,  golly!    I  don't  know  you  got 
comp'ny. 

STODDARD.  Hello,  Zsupnik!  Come  in,  come 
in! 

ZSUPNIK  [comes  down,  grinning].  Old  woman 
she  is  send  you  for  supper  some  fine  goulash  she 
make.  [Smacks  his  lips  to  convey  to  the  others 
its  delicacy  and  flavour.] 

STODDARD.  Now,  that's  kind  of  her.  She's 
a  wonderful  cook. 

ZSUPNIK  [to  TONY].  Tony,  why  you  ain't  help 
your  ma,  huh? 

TONY  [sulking].     Ain't  I  been  workin'  all  day! 
STEVEN.     Surely,  Mr.  Zsupnik,  you  can't  ask 
a  girl  who  has  worked  in  a  factory  all  day  to  come 
home  to  more  work  at  night. 

ZSUPNIK.     Her  mama  she  done  it.     Four  o'clock 

in  morning  she  work  in  field  in  Bohemia 

STODDARD.  Yes,  but  this  is  America,  Zsupnik. 
You're  an  American  now.  So  is  Tony. 


72  $1200  A  YEAR 

ZSUPNIK.  Yeh,  Tony,  she  talk  back  sassy  just 
like  American  girl,  all  right. 

STODDARD.     I'll  have  Martha  take  that  dish. 
[Catts.]     Martha! 
MARTHA  [from  kitchen,  off].     Yes! 
STODDARD.     Come  here,  will  you? 
MARTHA  [as  before].     In  a  minute! 
STODDARD.     Zsupnik,  I  want  to  introduce  you 
to  my  niece.     Make  you  acquainted — you  know. 
Frances,  this  Mr.  Chris  Zsupnik,   our  neighbour 
upstairs.     .     .     .     My  wife's  niece,  Miss  Frances 
Winthrop. 

[ZSUPNIK  juggles   the   hot   bowl  with   some 
difficulty  but  finally  succeeds  in  freeing  one 
huge  hand  which  he  wipes  on  .the  side  of  his 
trousers    and    extends    genially    to    Miss 
WINTHROP.     He   has   taken  off  his   hat, 
and  not  knowing  what  else  to  do  with  it 
has' dropped  it  at  his  feet.] 
ZSUPNIK.     How-do!     How-do! 
FRANCES  [gives  him  her  finger  tips.     He  shakes 
her  hand  vigorously,  endangering  the  bowl  of  goulash]. 
How  do  you  do. 

STODDARD.  Here,  let  me  take  that!  [Tries 
to  take  bowl  from  ZSUPNIK,  who  insists  on 
keeping  it.] 

ZSUPNIK.  He's  all  right.  [Genially  to  FRANCES.] 
You  like  goulash? 


$1200  A  YEAR  73 

FRANCES   [trying  not  to  shudder].    I've  never 
eaten  it. 

ZSUPNIK  [astounded].    No! 
STODDARD.    You  must  try  it,   Frances.   Mrs. 
Zsupnik  is  queen  of  the  goulash  makers. 

[ZSUPNIK  turns  back  the  corner  of  the  red 
napkin,  invitingly  revealing  the  contents 
of  the  savory  dish.] 

FRANCES  [faintly].     Oh,  I  couldn't,  really. 
TONY  [a  trifle  maliciously].     Maybe  she  don't 
like  garlic,  pa. 

STODDARD.     The    Winthrops    all    dote    on    it, 
don't  they,  Frances? 

[A  rather  baleful  look  from  FRANCES.     TONY 

breaks  into  a  series  of  giggles.] 
ZSUPNIK  [with  a  gesture  toward  the  ceiling].  Tony, 

you  ain't  go  up  help  your  mama  I 

TONY.     I'm  goin'  now.     Come  on,  Steve. 
STEVEN.    I'll    see    you    all    later.     Good-bye, 
Frances. 

FRANCES.     Good-bye! 

[MARTHA  enters  from  dining  room;  TONY  and 

STEVEN  go.] 

STODDARD.     Martha,    here's    something    Mrs. 
Zsupnik  sent  for  supper. 

[MARTHA  takes  dish  from  ZSUPNIK.] 
ZSUPNIK.    No  spill.    He  very  full. 


74  $1200  A   YEAR 

MARTHA.  Never  fear  my  spoilin'  the  carpet 
with  the  stuff. 

[Her  nose  in  the  air  she  turns  back  one  corner  of 
the  napkin  as  she  goes  toward  the  kitchen. 
A  whiff  of  the  pungent  food  causes  her  nose 
to  become  still  more  elevated  if  possible. 
She  exits  dining  room  holding  the  dish  well 
away  from  her  in  distaste.  ZSUPNIK  has 
been  looking  fixedly  at  FRANCES.  Now  he 
comes  close  and  peers  at  her.  FRANCES 
becomes  uncomfortable.] 

FRANCES  [loses  her  composure  entirely].  What's 
the  matter? 

ZSUPNIK.  Don't  I  have  see  you  before  some 
place?  Sure% 

FRANCES.  *  I  think  not.     No. 

[ZSUPNIK  continues  to  stare.  STODDARD, 
filling  his  pipe,  is  not  conscious  of  what 
is  going  on.] 

FRANCES  [becoming  agitated].     Really'     Paul! 
STODDARD.     You  don't  mind  my  old  pipe,  do 
you,  Frances? 

FRANCES  [indignantly,  as  ZSUPNIK'S  gaze  grows 
more  intent].  No,  but  I  do  mind — 

ZSUPNIK  [as  though  a  great  light  has  come  over  him]. 
By  golly!  [Turns  his  head  to  stare  at  picture  of 
GOVERNOR  WINTHROP  on  wall  then  back  to  FRANCES, 
then  to  picture  again,  then  back  to  FRANCES.] 


$1200  A   YEAR  75 

STODDARD.     What's  the  matter? 

ZSTJPNIK  [points  to  portrait}.  That's  where  I 
see  you  before!  You  just  like  old  man  on  picture. 
Look!  Look! 

FRANCES.     Paul,  this  man  is  insufferable! 

STODDARD.  He  doesn't  mean  any  harm,  Frances. 
The  best  fellow  in  the  world.  [Slaps  ZSUPNIK 
on  the  back.]  And,  Frances,  you  know  you  are  a 
hundred-year  throwback  to  old  Gamaliel  himself. 

FRANCES.     I'm  proud  of  it. 

STODDARD.  Well,  Zsupnik  didn't  mean  it  as  an 
insult,  you  know. 

[MARTHA  enters  with  clean  empty  bowl  and 
red  napkin  neatly  folded  inside.] 

MARTHA.     Here's  your  dish   an'A  napkin,   Mr. 

",, 

Zsupnik.  Much  obliged.  You  can  take  'em  up 
when  you  go.  [Aside  to  FRANCES.]  I  emptied 
the  stuff  out. 

STODDARD.     Keep  it  good  and  hot,  Martha. 

MARTHA  [goes,  muttering}.  It's  hot  enough,  now, 
with  paprika,  and  all  kinds  of  furrin'  devilment. 

STODDARD.  Oh,  Martha,  did  Mrs.  Stoddard 
expect  to  be  home  so  late,  when  she  left?  Did 
she  say? 

MARTHA  [turns  at  dining  room  door}.  Well,  I 
dunno.  She  went  to  one  them  concerts. 

STODDARD.      Yes,  they're  usually  late. 
[MARTHA  goes.} 


76  $1200  A  YEAR 

FRANCES.     Who's  playing? 

STODDARD.     Kreisler,  I  think. 

FRANCES  [a  little  enviously].     Oh,  glorious  [sighs]  i 

ZSUPNIK.     What  time  you  go  meeting  to-night? 

STODDARD.  It's  called  for  eight.  But  I'd  like 
just  a  few  minutes'  talk  with  the  shop  committee, 
first.  [Glances  at  watch.]  That  doesn't  give  me 
much  time. 

ZSUPNIK.  You  going  to  have  big  crowd,  by 
golly !  Krieger's  hall  he  ain't  big  enough  when  you 
speak,  I  betcha. 

FRANCES.  You're  speaking  at  Krieger's?  But 
that's  the  workingmen's  hall! 

STODDARD.     I'm  a  workingman. 

FRANCES.  But  you  haven't  been  talking  to 
that  kind  of  audience,  have  you?  The  papers 
said  that  when  you  talked  at  Carnegie  you  had  a 
regular  Metropolitan  Opera  audience.  And  cer 
tainly  at  Faneuil  Hall  it  was  distinguished  enough. 

STODDARD.  Until  to-night  I've  been  talking 
about  brains  gone  bankrupt.  I  knew  that  to  win 
my  point  I'd  have  to  become  the  fashion.  And 
I  have.  Any  lecturer  can  become  fashionable 
if  he's  only  rude  enough  to  his  audience. 

ZSUPNIK.  To-night  you  put  him  up  old  McClure, 
huh? 

FRANCES.  You're  attacking  McClure  directly? 
To  his  men? 


$1200  A  YEAR  77 

STODDARD.  No,  I'm  not  attacking  him.  You 
don't  realize,  Frances,  what's  happened  in  these 
last  four  months.  Twenty  thousand  schools 
have  closed  for  lack  of  teachers.  Brain  workers 
all  over  the  country  are  becoming  labourers.  The 
mill  office  is  crowded  with  men  wanting  jobs. 
The  law  of  supply  and  demand  is  beginning  to 
work.  There  isn't  a  magazine  or  newspaper  in 
the  country  that  hasn't  had  editorials,  and  articles, 
and  paragraphs  about  McClure. 

FRANCES.  And  they  all  call  him  Moloch 
McClure.  Poor  old  man! 

STODDARD.  Whatever  they  call  him  it's  begin 
ning  to  get  to  him.  And  now,  as  a  solution,  he 
announces  he's  going  to  lower  the  wage  scale  in  his 
mills.  Gad,  there's  something  almost  magnificent 
about  his  blind  egotism. 

ZSUPNIK  [proud  of  his  American  slang}.  Treat 
'em  rough.  .  .  .  Sure. 

STODDARD.  No:  there'll  be  no  "treat  'em  rough" 
in  what  I  have  to  say  to-night.  But  there  must  be 
no  lowering  of  wages.  That  won't  help  my  pur 
pose.  You  men  have  got  to  stand  pat. 

FRANCES.     Labour  problems  bore  me  so. 

STODDARD.  I'd  rather  teach  'em  than  solve 
them,  myself. 

[Three  dull  and  portentous  thumps  are  heard 
apparently  coming  from  the  ceiling  just 


78  $1200  A   YEAR 

above.  All  look  up  at  ceiling.  The  three 
thumps  are  repeated  immediately,  and  even 
more  emphatically}. 

ZSUPNIK.  Oo!  That  is  my  old  woman.  She 
give  me  hell.  Supper  ready.  [Rushes  up  toward 
hall  and  outer  door.  Remembers  his  manners,  turns9 
takes  off  his  battered  soft  hat.]  Well,  I  am  please' 
for  meet  you,  lady.  Sure. 

STODDARD.  See  you  later,  Zsupnik.  [As  the 
thumps  begin  again.]  Hurry  before  the  ceiling 
gives  way.  [ZSUPNIK  goes.]  Great  old  boy. 
[Laughs]  Afraid  of  nothing  in  the  world  except 
that  wife  of  his. 

FRANCES.  The  woman  who  was  here  when  I 
came? 

STODDARD.  Oh,  you've  seen  her!  What  did 
you  think  of  her?  H'm?  Wonderful  type! 

FRANCES.     Oh,  really,  Paul. 

STODDARD.  Now,  now,  Frances!  I  know  Bo 
hemia  is  what  they  call  a  far  cry  from  Boston. 
But  it  has  its  aspects,  too.  And  they're  inter 
esting — darned  interesting. 

FRANCES.     I  suppose  so. 

STODDARD.  Will  you  excuse  me,  Frances,  while 
I  wash  up?  Jean'll  be  here  any  minute.  I've  got 
to  get  some  of  this  mill  grime  off  of  me. 

FRANCES.  It's  too  fantastic,  seeing  you  in  those 
clothes.  I  can't  get  used  to  it. 


$1200  A  YEAH  79 

STODDARD.  I've  been  happier  since  I  began  to 
wear  them  than  I've  ever  been  in  my  life  before. 

FRANCES.  And  Jean,  as  the  honest  toiler's 
wife?  How  she  does  like  it? 

STODDARD.  Well,  Jean — Jean's  getting  used  to 

it.  Of  course  the  people  down  here But  she 

has  the  things  she's  always  wanted.  Things 
we've  never  been  able  to  afford  before.  Music, 
books,  pretty  dresses,  good  food.  Isn't  this  a 
pretty  little  place?  But  really  charming.  Be 
honest ! 

FRANCES.     It's  simply  perfect. 

STODDARD.  They  were  what  you  call  model 
tenements  to  begin  with.  A  few  partitions 
knocked  down  and  some  paint  did  the  trick. 
The  rest  was  easy. 

FRANCES.  And  doesn't  it  matter  to  you — the 
things  your  own  people  are  saying  about  you? 

STODDARD.     My  own  people! 

FRANCES.  Aunt  Abigail  Winthrop  in  Boston 

STODDARD.  Oh,  yes,  I  had  a  delightful  letter 
from  dear  old  Aunt  Abby,  after  I  spoke  in  Boston. 
She  said  I  was  dragging  Jean  into  the  mud,  and 
that  after  what  I  had  done  to  the  family  escutch 
eon  it  would  have  to  be  dry  cleaned — or  something 
like  that. 

FRANCES.  You  can't  blame  her.  Of  course 
we're  more  or  less  hardened  to  it  all  now.  But 


80  $1200  A  YEAR 

I'll  never  forget  that  first  Sunday  page:  "College 
Professor  Turns  Mill  Hand." 

STODDARD.  I  didn't  much  care  for  that  one. 
But  there  was  one.  .  .  .  "Pedagogue  Dons 
Garb  of  Toiler" — now  that's  my  notion  of  a 
headline. 

FRANCES.  If  you'd  only  stay  in  the  mill  and — 
and  puddle,  or  whatever  it  is  you  do.  People 
would  forget.  But  you  don't.  You're  always 
making  those  terrible  speeches.  You  haven't 
been  off  the  first  page  in  months.  Even  the 
Boston  Transcript  doesn't  seem  able  to  get  out  an 
edition  without  you.  You're  in  everything  from 
the  Literary  Digest  to  Snappy  Stories. 

STODDARD.  Well,  then,  my  speeches  must  be 
pretty  good — as  speeches  go. 

FRANCES.  I  suppose  so.  But  it's  harrowing 
never  to  be  able  to  pick  up  a  paper  or  a  magazine 
without  seeing  a  photograph  of  you  in  a  soft  shirt 
with  your  sleeves  rolled  up  and  your  collar  turned 
in  like  a  hero  in  a  Western  picture. 

STODDARD.  Frances,  it's  glorious.  Four  months 
ago  I  was  called  on  the  carpet  because  I  dared  ex 
press  an  opinion  to  a  handful  of  immature  boys 
in  a  class  room;  an  opinion  about  something  that 
had  happened  in  the  fifteenth  century.  I 
learned  then  that  a  college  professor  has  no  right 
to  have  opinions.  In  the  four  months  since  then 


$1200  A  YEAR  81 

I've  talked  to  fifty  thousand  men  and  women. 
To-night  I'm  going  down  to  Krieger's  Hall  to  tell 
five  thousand  men  and  women  to  stand  firm.  And 
they'll  do  it  because  I  tell  them. 

FRANCES.  But  you  always  said  the  labouring 
man  was  getting  too  much  money. 

STODDARD.  I  still  say  it.  But  lowering  his 
wage  now  won't  help.  That's  putting  the  cart 
before  the  horse. 

FRANCES.  Oh,  I  suppose  you're  having  a  beauti 
ful  time,  Paul.  But  what  about  Jean,  while 
you're  being  photographed,  and  interviewed,  and 
made  a  fuss  of? 

STODDARD.     Jean?     Jean's  happy — enough. 

FRANCES.     With  the  Zsupniks,  I  suppose. 

STODDARD.     What  have  they  got  to  do  with  it? 

FRANCES.  A  lot.  How  often  have  the  Put- 
nams,  or  the  Salsburys,  or  the  Blakes,  or  the  Pem- 
bertons  been  here? 

STODDARD.     They  haven't  been. 

FRANCES.     Of  course  they  haven't. 

STODDARD.  I  know  what  they're  saying.  And 
don't  think  it  doesn't  hurt.  But  they'll  see  it 
my  way  some  day.  They  must.  Only  why  are 
they  so  slow?  Frances,  I  get  more  out  of  a  half- 
hour's  talk  with  old  Chris  Zsupnik  than  I  got  in 
my  three  years'  association  with  those  unprogres- 
sive,  out-of-touch-with-life  professors  on  the  Hill. 


82  $1^00  A  YEAR 

Zsupnik  and  his  kind  have  got  wisdom,  I  tell  you, 
that  comes  of  the  soil.  And  humour!  They're 
rich  with  it. 

[The  hall  door  is  heard  to  slam.  JEAN 
STODDARD  comes  in  with  a  rush,  followed 
more  slowly  by  WINTHROP.  JEAN  is 
flushed  and  animated.  Her  gown,  hat, 
shoes,  gloves  are  modish  and  becoming  and 
smart  to  the  last  degree.} 

JEAN.  Oh,  my  dears!  I'm  so  sorry!  [Kisses 
FRANCES.]  How  wonderful  you  look! 
FRANCES  [all  admiration}.  And  you! 
JEAN  [unheeding}.  Doesn't  she,  Paul?  [To 
FRANCES.]  I'm  dying  for  all  the  Boston  gossip. 
We'll  just  take  out  our  teeth  and  have  a  good  talk. 
[She  is  taking  off  her  hat  and  gloves  as  she  continues. 
Her  manner  is  almost  too  markedly  animated.} 
Such  a  glorious  concert.  Kreisler,  you  know. 
He  gave  us  a  dozen  encores,  the  dear!  That's 
why  I'm  so  late.  I  couldn't  bear  to  leave.  I 
kept  edging  up  to  the  door,  and  then  coming  back 
down  the  aisle. 

FRANCES.  Where  did  you  pick  up  father? 
[To  WINTHROP.]  I  was  beginning  to  worry  about 
you. 

WINTHROP.  Well,  Frances,  you  know  that  slip 
of  paper  you  gave  me — the  one  with  the  address 
on  it.  Yes.  I  seem  to  have  misplaced  it  just 


91200  A   YEAR  83 

after  I  stepped  out  of  the  street  car.  Most  ex 
traordinary  thing. 

FRANCES.     In  your  pocket,  I  suppose. 

WINTHROP.  I  searched  through  all  my  pockets, 
methodically.  I  even  looked  into  the  lining  of  my 

hat.  You  know  I  sometimes  do There  were 

a  number  of  small  boys  uncommonly  rude. 

JEAN.  Poor  dear  lamb!  He  must  have  been 
wandering  around  for  hours.  I  was  rushing  home 
when  I  met  him  coming  out  of  Palazzo's  fish  shop. 

WINTHROP.     Very  pungent  place — very. 

JEAN.  I  had  my  little  encounter  this  afternoon, 
too.  [She  is  smiling  a  little  smile  that  is  not  very 
happy.]  I  met  Emily  Putnam  and  Mrs.  Salsbury 
as  I  was  coming  from  the  concert.  They  cut  me. 

FRANCES  [indignantly].     They  didn't! 

JEAN.     But  they  did. 

STODDARD  [blunderingly].  Probably  didn't  see 
you. 

JEAN.  They  not  only  saw  me — they  saw 
straight  through  me.  I  felt  Emily  Putnam's  eyes 
on  my  hairpins — here  [touches  her  back  hair]. 

FRANCES.  I  didn't  think  they'd  go  as  far  as 
that. 

STODDARD.  Jean  doesn't  care.  Do  you,  old 
girl? 

JEAN.  That's  the  curious  part  of  it.  [Turns 
away  a  little.]  I  do. 


84  91800  A  YEAR 

STODDARD.  Why  should  you!  No  matter  how 
blank  she  looked  I'll  bet  Emily  Putnam  has  a 
mental  photograph  of  every  tuck  and  hem  in  your 
dress. 

FRANCES.  That  makes  it  all  the  worse.  In 
time  they  may  forget  your  first -page  atrocities. 
But  they'll  never  forgive  Jean  those  clothes. 

JEAN  [in  spite  of  herself].  It  is  rather  nice,-  isn't 
it?  [Sighs.]  But  gowns  don't  count. 

STODDARD.  Don't  they,  eh?  Six  months  ago 
you  were  wretched  because  you  couldn't  have 
them.  I  must  say  I  don't  understand  you, 
Jean. 

JEAN.  Frances  understands — don't  you,  Frances? 
FRANCES.     I  think  I  do,  dear. 
STODDARD.     Here — we're    out    of    our   depths, 
Henry.     I'm  going  to  clean  up.     [Goes  toward  bed 
room  right.]     Come  on,  Henry.     I'll  practise  to 
night's  speech  on  you  while  I'm  shaving. 

[As  soon  as  the  men  are  out  of  the  room  the 
two  women  look  at  each  other  for  an  electric 
moment,  wordlessly.  They  come  together 
with  a  little  rush.  Strangely  enough, 
it  is  FRANCES,  the  younger  woman,  who 
takes  JEAN  in  her  arms.] 

FRANCES  [pats  JEAN'S  shoulder  soothingly] .  There, 
there,  dear.  I  know,  I  know.  I've  seen  your 
neighbours. 


$1200  A  YEAR  85 

JEAN  [lifts  her  head,  wipes  her  eyes,  looks  cau~ 
tiously  toward  the  bedroom  door.  Her  voice  is  lowered], 
Frances,  I  hate  it.  I  hate  it!  I  can't  go  on  living 
down  here.  It's  wonderful  to  have  somebody 
who  understands.  Paul  doesn't  seem  to.  He  has 
his  work — and  these  meetings,  and  speeches,  and 
tours — and  he  loves  it.  You  can't  imagine  what 
these  months  have  been  to  me.  It  wasn't  so  bad 
at  first.  It  was  rather  fun.  The  novelty  of  it. 
And  the  joy  of  not  having  to  think  of  every  penny. 
And  then  buying  all  these  pretty  things.  [She 
cant  help  a  certain  pride  in  that  room.]  It  is  pretty, 
isn't  it?  This  room? 

FRANCES.     I'd  love  to  live  in  it. 

JEAN.  But  not  down  here.  Do  you  know 
you're  the  first  woman  of  my  own  class  who's  ever 
set  foot  in  it! 

FRANCES.    Not  one  of  them! 

JEAN.  Not  one  of  them.  ...  And  you 
know  I'm  not  the  kind  of  woman  who  can  be  con 
tent  just  to  have  pretty  clothes,  pretty  things 
about.  Oh,  I  don't  say  I  haven't  loved  them.  I 
have.  I  do!  But  it  isn't  enough.  It  isn't 
enough!  I  want  people.  I  want  my  own  people 
[She  is  very  near  to  tears  again]. 

FRANCES.  Paul  seems  to  be  so  satisfied  with 
these — these  Zsupniks,  and  all  that. 

JEAN.    I   sometimes   wonder.    After   all,   he's 


86  $1200  A   YEAR 

a  scholar  in  mind  and  by  training.  Not  a  la 
bourer.  It's  the  excitement,  I  suppose.  And 
then  every  minute  of  his  time  is  full.  I — I  scarcely 
see  him,  now. 

FRANCES.  When  I  talked  to  him  he  was  like  a 
boy.  And  when  this  man  upstairs  came  in — 

JEAN.  He's  always  having  those  mill  workers 
of  his  in  here.  They  seem  to  fascinate  him.  I 
never  come  into  the  room  that  I  don't  expect  to 
find  at  least  two  puddlers  on  the  davenport  and  a 
roller  with  his  feet  on  the  piano. 

FRANCES.  Perhaps  he's  interested  in  them— 
as  types. 

JEAN.  No.  He  likes  them.  Another  year 
of  this  and  he'll  be  one  of  them.  He'll  be  drinking 
his  coffee  out  of  his  saucer,  next,  and  demanding 
a  raw  onion  in  his  lunch  box. 

FRANCES.     You  can't  go  on  like  this,  Jean. 

JEAN.     What  can  I  do? 

FRANCES.  Talk  to  him.  Make  him  see  it. 
He  always  has  been  so  understanding. 

JEAN.  You  don't  know  him,  now.  For  that 
matter,  neither  do  I.  I  scarcely  see  him.  He's 
down  at  the  mills  all  day.  At  night  he  prepares 
his  speeches,  reads  his  correspondence,  writes 
reams  of  letters,  reads.  On  Saturday  night  and 
Sunday  he's  off  speaking  somewhere. 

FRANCES.     Why  doesn't  he  give  up  the  silly 


91200  A  YEAR  87 

puddling,  or  whatever  it  is  he  does  in  the  mill, 
and  go  in  for  lecturing  altogether? 

JEAN.  Because  then  he  wouldn't  be  a  professor 
turned  mill  hand.  He'd  be  a  professor  turned 
lecturer.  Nobody'd  go  to  hear  him. 

FRANCES  [a  doubt  in  her  mind].  But  he  seemed 
so  sincere ! 

JEAN.  Sincere!  He's  as  sincere  as  the  Cru 
saders,  and  twice  as  energetic.  Why,  when  I  hear 
him  speak  even  I'm  convinced.  Only — well,  I 
never  was  meant  to  be  the  wife  of  a  Crusader. 

FRANCES.  I  don't  quite  see  how  it's  all  going 
to  end.  They'll  never  take  him  back  at  the  uni 
versity.  And  you  can't  go  on  here. 

JEAN.     I'm  afraid  to  look  ahead. 
[The  doorbell  rings.] 

JEAN  [wipes  her  eyes  hastily  and  pats  her  dis 
ordered  hair}.  Probably  another  roller. 

FRANCES.     What's  a  roller? 

[MARTHA  enters  from  dining  room,  goes  to 
hall  door.} 

JEAN.  A  roller  is  something  that  earns  thirty 
dollars  working  eight  hours,  and  thinks  he  ought 
to  get  forty — working  six. 

MARTHA  [off].  Well,  for  the  land's  sakes! 
How  do,  Perfesser!  How  do! 

[Enter    PUTNAM,    SNELL,    and  SALSBURY. 
They  are,  if  possible,  shabbier  than  when 


88  $1200  A  YEAR 

they  last  appeared,  but  it  is  apparent  that 
they  are  nerved  up  to  a  determined  effort 
of  some  sort.  SALSBURY  is  the  oldest  of 
the  three  men.  He  wears  a  brown  beard 
slightly  tinged  with  gray.] 

JEAN  [after  one  astonished  moment].  Professor 
Putnam!  Howard!  How  do  you  do!  And 
Professor  Salsbury!  How  glad  I  am  to  see 
you! 

[The  three  professors  greet  her  and  FRANCES. 
There  is  about  them   marked   constraint. 
MARTHA  exits  dining  room.] 
PUTNAM  [to  FRANCES].     So  you  and  your  father 
have  returned!    We  have  needed   him   sorely— 
sorely. 

[The  other  men  are  looking  about  the  attractive 
room  in  some  wonderment,  and  with  evident 
admiration] 

FRANCES.     We're  both  so  happy  to  be  back. 
JEAN.     You  want  to  see  Paul,  of  course. 
SNELL  [a  little  doubtfully].     H'm,  yes.     Yes. 
SALSBURY  [hesitatingly].   Ah — er — yes.  [He  gives 
it  the  rising  inflection] 

PUTNAM  [firmly].    In  fact — yes! 
JEAN.     Do  sit  down,  I'll   call  him.     [Goes  to 
bedroom  door,  calls].     Paul!     Some — friends  here 
to  see  you. 
STODDARD      [from  bedroom,  of.    His  voice  some- 


$1200  A  YEAR  89 

what  muffled  and  queer] .    Aw'ri '.     Minute.    Shav 
ing! 

JEAN  [to  the  others].    Probably  finishing  his  chin. 

PUTNAM.  What  a  charming  place  you  have 
here. 

JEAN.  s  Do  you  like  it? 

SNELL.  One  would  hardly  expect — ah — in  this 
neighbourhood. 

SALSBURY.     It's  luxurious — positively. 

JEAN.  Oh,  no.  Just  comfortable.  Six  rooms. 
The  bedroom,  there  [indicates  door  right].  And 
in  here — perhaps  you'd  like  to  see  it?  [The  three 
men  rise  and  follow  her  to  door,  left].  Paul  has  a 
tiny  study  just  off  the  dining  room!  [They  are 
grouped  in  the  doorway  and  peer  in,  interestedly. 
They  turn  to  look  at  each  other,  thoughtfully.]  Then 
there's  the  kitchen,  of  course,  and  Martha's  room. 
[Her  first  opportunity  to  show  the  place.] 

PUTNAM.    H'm,  yes. 

SALSBURY.     Yes,  indeed. 

[It  is  plain  that  they  are  thinking  of  the  con 
trast  between  this  charming  little  place  and 
their  own  meagre,  shabby  households] 

SNELL  [he  has  MILLY  in  mind].  One  could  be 
very  happy  here. 

JEAN.    Yes,  but  it  isn't  the  Hill. 

SNELL  [rather  sadly].  The  Hill  isn't  paradise 
by  any  m 


90  $1200  A  YEAR 

PUTNAM  [coughs  loudly].  A  mess  of  pottage,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Stoddard,  if  you'll  pardon  my  saying  so. 
A  mess  of  pottage. 

[Enter  WINTHROP,  peers  about  near-sightedly .] 
WINTHROP.     Well,  upon   my   soul!     My   dear 
fellows! 

PUTNAM.     Welcome  home! 
SNELL.     Ah,  Professor!     [They  all  shake  hands.} 
SALSBURY.    You've    come    back    to    turmoil, 
Professor  Winthrop. 

WINTHROP.     Things    were    far    from    calm    in 
Boston,  my  dear  boy.     Classes  closed.     Students 
idle.     I  don't  know  what  we're  coming  to,  really. 
PUTNAM.     It  must  be  stopped. 

[Enter  STODDARD  from  bedroom,  just  shrug- 
ging  himself  into  his  coat.  He  is  freshly 
shaved  and  brushed,  wears  a  clean,  blue 
soft  shirt,  and  looks  strikingly  alert,  and 
virile,  and  alive  in  comparison  with  the 
subdued  and  spiritless-looking  men  who 
have  come  to  see  him.] 

STODDARD  [surprised].  Hello!  Hello!  [To  JEAN.] 
Jean,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  who  it  was!  [He 
is  shaking  hands  with  all  of  them.]  I'd  come 
in  with  one  side  lathered  and  the  other  smooth. 
You'll  all  stay  to  dinner,  won't  you?  You  must. 
There's  always  enough  for  [looking  around  rather 
hastily]  five  more,  isn't  there,  Jean? 


$1200  A  YEAR  91 

PUTNAM.  No,  no,  my  dear  Stoddard.  We 
are  here,  not  for  a  social  call,  but  as  a  committee. 

STODDARD  [who  has  suspected  this}.  Committee? 
Oh,  I  see. 

FRANCES.     Come  father.     We  must  go. 

WINTHROP  [who  would  like  to  stay].     Must  we? 

PUTNAM.  We  should  be  happy  to  have  you 
remain,  Professor  Winthrop.  We  know  you  are 
with  us  in  what  we  have  to  say. 

WINTHROP.  M-m-m.  I'm  not  so  sure.  I've 
just  been  privileged  to  hear  some  splendid  periods 
from  Paul.  [Quotes,  evidently  from  STODDARD'S 
speech}  Without  economic  freedom  there  can  be 
no  freedom  of  the  intellect.  Without — what  was 
the  rest  of  that,  Paul? 

STODDARD.  Far  as  we  got,  Henry.  That's 
where  I  nicked  my  chin.  [Dabs  his  chin  ruefully.] 

JEAN  [at  dining  room  door,  left].  Coming, 
Frances? 

[JEAN  and  FRANCES  go.] 

STODDARD.  Now,  then,  I'm  sorry  to  have  to 
hurry  you.  But  I've  a  meeting  to-night  at  eight 
o'clock. 

PUTNAM.  I,  too,  have  a  meeting  to-night. 
The  remnants  of  the  faculty  of  Dinsmore  Univer 
sity.  You  probably  know  that,  encouraged  by 
your  example,  Tilden  of  the  Chemistry  depart 
ment  is  now  with  the  Patterson  Dye  Works  as 


92  $1200  A  YEAR 

laboratory  expert.  Salary  six  thousand  a  year. 
Evans  has  gone  in  an  advisory  capacity  with  the 
firm  of  Fish,  Klinger  and  Klein — ah — Kollege  Kut 
Klothes.  Salary  of  seven  thousand. 

STODDARD.  Seven.  Good!  That's  almost 
wages. 

PUTNAM.  Others  have  come  down  to  the  mills. 
Especially  some  of  our  most  promising  young 
material.  You  know  these  facts.  In  short,  Stod- 
dard,  you  are  responsible  for  such  chaos  as  Dins- 
more  University  has  never  known. 

SALSBURY.  And  Dinsmore  is  only  one  of  a 
hundred  universities  similarly  handicapped 
throughout  the  country. 

SNELL.  It  is  Dinsmore  that  concerns  us.  You 
and  your  speeches,  Stoddard,  are  responsible  for 
it  all. 

PUTNAM.  You  graduated  from  Dinsmore.  You 
taught  there  for  five  years.  You  must  still  have 
some  feeling  for  its  future. 

STODDARD.     So  much  that  I  left  it. 

PUTNAM.  A  strange  way  to  show  your  affection. 
You  have  run  the  institution  to  the  ground.  In 
stead  of  assuring  better  educational  facilities  for 
the  next  generation  you  are  ruining  the  hopes  of 
this.  With  practically  every  college  and  univer 
sity  in  the  country  on  the  verge  of  collapse  the 
youth  of  the  nation  will  be  turned  into  the  streets. 


$1200  A  YEAR  93 

Education  will  be  at  a  standstill.  Where  shall 
we  find  trained  minds  to  carry  on  the  intellectual 
life  of  a  civilized  nation  in  the  next  generation? 

STODDARD.  I  had  hoped  for  it.  I  never 
dreamed  it  would  come  so  soon. 

PUTNAM.  And  you  would  commit  this  crime 
against  civilization  for  thirty  dollars  a  day  and  the 
cheap  notoriety  your  actions  have  brought  you? 

SNELL  [oratorically].     For  thirty  talents  of  silver. 

STODDARD.  Let's  not  become  Biblical,  Snell. 
[To  PUTNAM.]  What  is  it  your  committee  wants 
me  to  do? 

PUTNAM.  We  ask  you  to  stop  this  agitation 
before  it  is  too  late.  We  ask  you  to  cease  cheapen 
ing  our  profession  by  your  spectacular  appeals 
throughout  the  country.  You  knew,  when  you 
chose  teaching  as  a  profession,  that  you  would 
never  become  rich  thereby.  A  college  professor 
is  not  a  mere  money  maker.  You  knew  you  would 
never  be  able  to  surround  yourself  with  luxury 
or  even  comfort,  perhaps.  A  teacher  is  a  mission 
ary.  But  if  teaching  entails  self-sacrifice  it  is 
repaid  by  the  nobility  of  the  work  itself. 

[A     nod    of    approval    from    SNELL    and 
SALSBURY.] 

WINTHROP.     A  powerful  appeal,  Putnam. 

PUTNAM.  If  you  no  longer  wish  to  be  known  as 
a  teacher  we  ask  you  to  let  us  teach  in  peace,  and 


94  $1200  A  YEAR 

with  dignity.  If  you  do  not  consent  to  this  your 
name  will  be  stricken  to-night  from  the  member 
ship  of  your  fraternity;  from  the  University  Club; 
from  the  Faculty  Club,  from  the 

STODDARD.  Then  you're  in  for  a  busy  evening. 
I'll  never  stop  until  I've  won. 

[The  committee  is  visibly  taken  aback  at  that.} 

PUTNAM.     That's  final? 

STODDARD.    Absolutely. 

PUTNAM.     Then  that  is  all,  gentlemen. 

[The  ihree  committeemen   move   toward   the 
door.} 

STODDARD.  Not  quite  all.  I  want  to  thank 
you. 

PUTNAM.     Spare  us  that  further  insult. 

STODDARD.  But  I  mean  it.  If  I've  been  in 
doubt,  you've  convinced  me.  You've  given  me 
the  courage  to  go  on. 

PUTNAM.     What! 

STODDARD.  It's  you  who  are  degrading  the 
profession  you  say  you  love.  It  is  men  like  you 
who  have  brought  it  into  disrepute. 

PUTNAM.  I  refuse  to  listen  to  this.  [To  the 
others.}  Come. 

STODDARD  [places  himself  in  front  of  them}.  But 
you  must  listen.  You  talk  about  the  nobility 
of  teaching,  but  you've  failed  to  make  the  world 
respect  it.  We're  still  Ichabod  Cranes,  boarding 


$1200  A  YEAR  95 

around  among  the  farmers — or  a  little  better  than 
that.  Not  one  of  you  but  is  torn  by  continual 
worry — the  grinding  worry  of  how  you  are  to 
feed  your  family,  •  clothe  them,  warm  them,  give 
them  necessities.  You've  long  ago  given  up  amuse 
ment,  recreation,  books  even.  I  know.  Every 
other  constructive  profession  in  the  world  is  ade 
quately  paid.  Why  is  the  teacher  at  the  bottom 
of  the  scale?  Because  you're  content  to  take  it 
out  in  being  noble.  Well,  how  about  the  next 
generation  of  teachers? 

SNELL.     But  it's  the  present 

STODDARD  [unheeding  the  interruption}.  Putnam, 
can  you  save  one  penny  out  of  your  salary?  Be 
honest. 

PUTNAM.     You  know  I  can't. 

STODDARD.  Snell?  Salibury?  Henry,  I  needn't 
ask  you.  And  what  if  you  should  take  sick? 
Die?  Do  you  ever  think  of  that? 

PUTNAM.     I  never  stop  thinking  of  it. 

STODDARD.  And  you  say  you're  giving  your 
best  to  your  work?  You're  giving  half  your  mind 
to  it.  Half  a  tortured  mind  in  an  under-nourished 
body. 

WINTHROP.  Not  so  bluntly,  Paul.  Not  so 
blunt— 

STODDARD.  Let's  face  facts.  You  can't  live 
decently  on  your  salary.  Hundreds  of  schools 


96  $1200  A  YEAR 

and  colleges  are  closing  because  other  men  and 
women  can't  live  on  the  pay  that  comes  from  doing 
the  work  they  love.  Well,  what  then?  The 
teacher  of  the  future  will  have  to  be  the  man  or 
woman  who  isn't  wanted  any  place  else.  The 
quality  of  our  teachers  has  been  deteriorating 
steadily  in  the  last  twenty  years.  In  another 
twenty  our  schools  will  be  manned  by  the  unfit, 
physically  and  mentally.  A  country  can  better 
afford  to  economize  on  everything  else  than  on  its 
education.  Education  is  the  foundation  of  de 
mocracy.  And  yet  a  stenographer  who  takes  a 
six  months'  business  course  is  better  paid  than  a 
teacher  who  has  spent  six  years  fitting  himself 
for  his  profession.  A  bricklayer  won't  work  for 
six  dollars  a  day,  but  you're  content  to  teach  for 
less  than  that. 

SNELL  [to  PUTNAM].     Everything  he  says  is  true. 

PUTNAM.  But  what  can  we  do?  I  don't  deny 
it.  But  what  can  we  do? 

STODDARD.  It's  a  desperate  situation.  Use 
desperate  measures.  Your  ideals  may  be  lofty, 
and  your  calling  may  be  noble,  but  no  man  can 
hold  up  his  head  when  there's  a  crack  in  his  shoe. 
You  can't  teach  with  a  full  mind  when  the  ice  box 
is  empty.  You  may  have  the  brain  of  a  Socrates, 
but  the  world  will  only  notice  you're  wearing  a 
dirty  collar  and  that  your  trousers  are  frayed. 


A  YEAR  97 

[Instinctively  the  hands  of  the  others  go  to 
their  collars.     They  ease  their  throats  in 
their  endeavour  to  hide  their  embarrassment 
at  what  they  have  involuntarily  done] 
PUTNAM  [taking  a  last  feeble  stand].     What  you 
say  has  always  been  true  of  our  profession. 
SNELL.     God,  yes! 

PUTNAM.     Then  why  should  we  rebel  now? 
WINTHROP  [suddenly].     Because    without    eco 
nomic  freedom  there  can  be  no  freedom  of  the  in 
tellect.     Because 

STODDARD.  Here.  You  find  this  room  attrac 
tive,  don't  you?  The  kind  of  place  you'd  want. 
There  isn't  a  roller  in  the  mills  who  couldn't  have 
one  like  it  if  his  taste  happened  to  run  that  way. 
He  prefers  automobiles  and  victrolas,  but  that's 
his  affair.  Why  should  you  be  denied  what  he 
takes  for  granted?  He  produces  materials,  yes. 
But  you  produce  producers. 

[Under    STOOD ARD'S    spell   the    others  have 
been  listening  as  though  fascinated.     With 
an  effort,  and  almost  as  though  in  fear, 
PUTNAM  frees  himself] 
PUTNAM  [agitatedly].     We  must  be  going. 
SNELL.     Is   this   what  you've  been   saying  in 
your  lectures? 

STODDARD.     This — and  more.     Wait. 
PUTNAM.     No.     Come,  Snell. 


98  $1200  A   YEAR 

[PUTNAM,  SALSBURY,  and  WINTHROP  have 
been  edging  toward  the  outer  entrance, 
still  keeping  their  eyes  on  Stoddard's  face. 
PUTNAM  now  takes  SNELL'S  arm.  STOD- 
DARD,  still  talking  .follows  them,  stepbystep.] 
STODDARD.  To-night,  when  they  expel  me 
from  the  university  clubs,  tell  them  what  I've  told 
you.  Tell  them  there's  no  dignity  in  living  in 
want.  Tell  them  to  prove  what  will  happen  when 
brains  go  on  a  strike.  Tell  them  the  time  has  come 
to  show  the  world  what  will  become  of  its  railroads, 
its  mines,  its  corporation,  its  commerce,  without 
the  schoolmaster  behind  them.  It  is  you  and  I 
who  must  train  the  technical  minds  that  control 
all  these.  What  of  the  mills  and  mines  without 
their  engineers?  What  of  the  corporations  with 
out  their  lawyers?  What  of  the  cities  without  their 
architects?  The  farms  without  trained  agricul 
turists?  [The  four  professors  are  in  the  doorway 
now,  and  still  retreating.  They  back  their  way  out, 
STODDARD  following.  They  disappear,  STODDARD 
with  them].  I  tell  you  that  when  you  submit  to 
this  thing  that  is  being  done  to  you,  you  commit 
a  crime  not  only  against  yourselves  but  against 
the  next  generation  of  teachers  and  students.  If 
teaching  is  the  noblest  profession  in  a  civilized 
community,  then  show  that  community  it  must 
respect  it. 


$1200  A  YEAR  99 

[The  outer  door  bangs.     STODDARD'S  voice 
ceases.     The  stage  is  empty  for  a  moment. 
Enter   FRANCES  from    dining    room.    A 
moment  later  SEAN  follows  her.] 
FRANCES.     But    we    must    go.     [Looks    about 

room.]    Father!    Why [STODDARD  enters  from 

outer  hall.]     Where  is  father? 
STODDARD.     He's  gone. 
JEAN.     Without  Frances! 
STODDARD.     I  think  he  forgot  all  about  her. 
FRANCES.     Oh,  dear.     Sometimes  I  think  father 
acts  just  like  a  stage  professor.     Good-bye,  dear. 
[Hurriedly  to  JEAN.     FRANCES  toward  outer  door9 
back.] 

JEAN.     It's    so    good    to    know   you're   home. 
You'll  come  soon  again. 

FRANCES.  Of  course.  [They  kiss.]  Good-bye. 
[FRANCES  goes.  STODDARD  picks  up  news 
paper  from  piano  where  he  tossed  it  on 
entering.  Reads,  holding  the  paper  up. 
JEAN  turns  from  hall  doorway  as  FRANCES 
goes.  Her  attitude  and  expression  have 
been  alive  and  energetic.  Now,  as  she 
comes  back  into  the  room,  she  droops  as 
though  a  temporary  exhilaration  had  fled. 
There  is  a  moment's  silence.  PAUL  reads 
absorbedly.  JEAN  eyes  him  with  the  intent 
look  a  woman  gives  a  man  when  she  has 


100  91200  A  YEAR 

something  important  to  say  and  knows  that 
he  is  blithely  unconscious  of  it.  She  goes 
over  to  piano,  fingers  a  sheet  of  music,  still 
intent  on  her  husband.] 

JEAN.  They  came  to  ask  you  to  give  it  up, 
didn't  they? 

STODDARD.  Yes.  [Silence  again.  JEAN  and 
STODDARD  as  before.]  Frances  looks  well,  doesn't 
she?  [JEAN  makes  no  response.]  Pretty  girl. 
She  ought  to  marry.  [He  still  holds  newspaper 
before  him  and  is  reading  and  talking.]  I  hope  she 
won't  turn  out  like  your  Aunt  Abby.  They're 
both  an  awful  lot  like  the  old  Governor  up  there. 
[A  nod  toward  the  ancestor  on  the  wall.]  Frances 
never  was  meant  to  be  an  ancestor.  [Reads  as 
before.  Suddenly  the  silence  seems  to  strike  him. 
His  paper  comes  down  with  a  little  crash.} 
'Smatter? 

JEAN.     Nothing. 

STODDARD  [goes  over  to  her].     Is  it  as  bad  as  that? 

JEAN  [moves  away  from  him].  Am  I  to  spend 
another  evening  here,  alone,  with  Martha  for 
company? 

STODDARD.  Come  with  me  to  the  meeting 
to-night,  Jean.  I  wish  you  would. 

JEAN.  Paul,  nothing  counts  with  you  but  your 
work.  I  haven't  really  talked  with  you  in  months. 
You  care  for  nothing  but  those  eternal  lectures, 


$1200  A. YEAR  101 

and  the  mills,  and  the  mill  hands.     It's  another 
world.     And  it's  not  my  world. 

STODDARD.  I'm  sorry,  old  girl.  It  does  take 
everything  that's  in  me — this  job.  But  I've 
found  myself  in  it. 

JEAN.  But  I've  lost  you.  And  you're  losing 
me.  I  thought  life  was  hard  on  the  Hill.  But  at 
least  I  had  you.  Your  plans  were  my  plans.  I 
understood  your  difficulties  there.  I  could  help 
you  fight  them.  If  we  had  hardships  we  endured 
them  together.  But  here 

STODDARD.  I  know.  This  living  down  here 
has  its  drawbacks.  You  feel  them  more  than  I. 
But  [indicating  the  room]  it  has  had  its  good  side, 
too. 

JEAN.  It's  pretty  enough,  but  who  sees  it? 
Your  mill  friends  in  their  great  clumping  boots! 
Half  the  fun  of  having  pretty  things  is  in  knowing 
your  women  friends  will  envy  you. 

STODDARD.  Haven't  I  tried  to  interest  you  in 
my  work  down  here? 

JEAN.  Interested  in  what!  In  steel  slabs,  and 
time-and-half  overtime,  and  bonuses  per  ton!  I 
don't  even  know  what  it  means. 

STODDARD.  It  means  more  comfort  for  us  than 
we've  ever  had  since  we  were  married. 

JEAN.  Paul,  dear,  let's  get  out  of  this.  We 
don't  belong  here.  We  never  did.  Let's  go  back 


102  $1200  .A  YEAR 

to  the  work  you  really  love.  Let's  go  back  to  our 
own  kind  of  people. 

STODDARD.     You  know  I  can't  do  that — now. 

JEAN.  But  you  do  want  to,  don't  you?  Be 
honest.  You  do. 

STODDARD.     I  would  like  to  go  back — honestly. 

JEAN.  Then  give  up  this  Quixotic  plan  of  yours. 
They  came  to  ask  you  to  give  it  up — Putnam  and 
the  rest.  Why  won't  you  listen? 

STODDARD.     I  heard  what  they  had  to  say. 

JEAN.     And  they  couldn't  change  you? 

STODDARD.  I  think  there  was  some  change 
made.  [JEAN  looks  hopeful.]  But  not  in  me. 

JEAN.  Paul,  does  it  mean  nothing  to  you  that 
I  am  thoroughly  miserable  here? 

STODDARD.  You've  got  your  music — books — all 
the  things  you  wanted  and  couldn't  afford. 

JEAN.     It's  people  I  want.     People! 

STODDARD.  You've  been  talking  to  Frances. 
She  has  put  those  ideas  into  your  head.  You  were 
happy  enough  until  now.  She  has  come  straight 
from  Aunt  Abby.  I  know  what  that  means. 

JEAN.  Frances  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I've 
wanted  to  tell  you  this  for  weeks.  I  thought  I 
could  stick  it  out.  But  I  can't. 

STODDARD.     You  don't  want  me  to  be  a  quitter. 

JEAN.     I  want  you  to  be  the  man  I  married. 

STODDARD  [goes  to  her}.     Don't  you  know,  dear, 


$1200  A  YEAR  103 

that  your  happiness  means  more  to  me  than  any 
thing  in  the  world?  But  this  thing  is  bigger  than 
either  of  us.  It's  bigger  than  you  are.  It's  bigger 
than  I  am.  You've  always  stood  by  me  and  we've 
gone  through  a  lot  together.  I  need  you  now  more 
than  ever.  I  need  my  wife. 

JEAN.    Need  me!    I  never  see  you. 

STODDARD.  Jean,  you've  been  staying  home, 
brooding.  You  don't  get  out  enough. 

JEAN.  Out!  Out  where?  Do  you  expect  me 
to  go  calling  on  the  mill  hands'  wives?  My  own 
friends  are  gone.  You  know  what  happened  this 
afternoon.  I  couldn't  stand  that  again.  I'd 
rather  stay  home  forever. 

STODDARD.  But  you're  unreasonable,  dear. 
You  don't  seem  to  realize  what  this  job  of  mine 
means. 

JEAN.  It  means  more  to  you  than  I  do.  I 
married  a  college  professor,  not  a  mill  hand. 

STODDARD  [grimly].  You'll  have  to  get  used  to 
it. 

JEAN  [start led] .     For  always ! 

STODDARD  .    Possibly . 

JEAN.  I  can't  do  it!  I'd  rather  be  dead!  It's 
too  hideous.  [A  little  pause.}  Paul,  give  this  up 
or  I'll  go  away. 

PAUL  [bewildered].  What  do  you  mean?  Away! 
Where? 


104  91200  A  YEAR 

JEAN  [desperately].       Anywhere.       Aunt  Abby 

might 

[MARTHA  appears  at  dining  room  door.} 
MARTHA.     I  rung  the  gong  twicet  but  I  guess 
you  didn't  notice. 

STODDARD  [looks  at  watch].     I  ought  to  be  start 
ing.     I  didn't  know  it  was  so  late. 

MARTHA.     Well,  for  the  land's  sakes !    You  can't 
go  to  no  meetin'  on  an  empty  stomach. 

STODDARD.     I've  just  time  for  a  bite.     [Goes 
toward  dining  room.] 

MARTHA.     An'  you  the  one  that  was  starvin' 
when  you  come  home. 

JEAN.     Just  serve  dinner,  Martha.     I'll  be  in 
immediately. 

[STODDARD  exits  dining  room.] 
MARTHA    [grumbling].     Everything'll   be   stone 
cold.     [Exits.} 

[JEAN  stands  a  moment  to  satisfy  herself  that 
PAUL  and  MARTHA  are  in  dining  room  out 
of  hearing.     Goes  to  bedroom.     The  ting 
of  the  telphone  is  heard  as  she  picks  up  re 
ceiver,  out  of  sight.     Her  voice  is  heard,  off.] 
JEAN.     Lancaster  eight- two-four.     Yes.      [The 
telephone  is  apparently  just  inside  the  door  between 
bedroom  and  living  room,  for  JEAN'S  arm  can  be  seen 
as  it  reaches  out  and  cautiously  closes  the  door  as 
her  voice  goes  on.]    Is  this  Lancaster  eight-two- 


$1200  A  YEAR  105 

four?    May    I    speak [The    door    is    closed. 

The  doorbell  rings,  but  before  MARTHA  can  answer 
CHRIS  ZSUPNIK,  TONY  ZSUPNIK,  and  STEVEN  enter. 
MARTHA  appears  at  dining  room  door.  Encounters 
the  three.  TONY  is  gorgeous  in  high  heels  and  plumed 
hat.] 

ZSUPNIK.     Is  Stoddard  ready  for  meeting? 

MARTHA.     My  land,  we  ain't  et  yet. 

TONY.  It's  way  after  seven.  We  won't  get  no 
good  seats  if  we're  late. 

[STODDARD  enters  from  dining  room.] 

ZSUPNIK.  I  got  the  car  outside.  Drive  you 
over.  You  ain't  got  much  time,  neither. 

STODDARD.     I'll  be  right  with  you. 

[JEAN  opens  bedroom  door,  enters  living  room 
as  STODDARD  goes  toward  bedroom.] 

MARTHA  [to  STODDARD].  You  ain't  hardly 
touched  a  bite. 

STODDARD.  Haven't  time.  [STODDARD  exits 
bedroom.] 

STEVEN.  Aren't  you  coming  to  the  meeting, 
Mrs.  Stoddard? 

JEAN.     No. 

STEVEN.  Oh,  come  on.  I  know  he'll  be  won 
derful  this  evening.  [JEAN  shakes  her  head. 
STODDARD  enters  from  bedroom  with  soft  hat  in  hand 
and  a  flat  leather  brief  case.] 

TONY  [to  JEAN].    Ain't  you  comin'? 


106  $1200  A  YEAR 

JEAN.    No. 

TONY.  All  right,  then,  let's  go.  [They  go 
noisily.  The  door  slams.  JEAN  is  left  standing 
in  the  room  alone.  MARTHA  enters  from  dining 
room} 

MARTHA.  If  your  vittles  ain't  fit  to  eat  don't 
blame  me. 

JEAN.     I  don't  want  any  dinner,  Martha. 

MARTHA.     Don't  want  no  dinner! 

JEAN.  I've — I've  a  headache.  I  can't  eat 
anything. 

MARTHA.  An'  me  standing  all  day  yuh  might 
say  gettin'  a  meal  nobody  touches.  If  I  chopped 
that  spinach  a  minute  I  chopped  it  half  an  hour. 

JEAN.     I'm  sorry,  Martha. 

MARTHA.  It's  disheartin',  that's  what  it  is. 
Good  food 

JEAN.  Martha,  if  you'd  like  to  go  out  for  a 
while? 

MARTHA  [softening}.  Well,  if  you  don't  mind 
bein'  left  alone  I  would  like  to  visit  my  friend 
Mary  that  works  up  on  the  Hill. 

JEAN.     I  don't  mind  being  alone.     I  want  to  be. 

MARTHA.  It  is  best  when  you've  got  a  headache 
to  be  quiet. 

[MARTHA  exits  dining  room.  The  doorbell 
rings.  JEAN,  frowning  a  little,  goes  to 
answer  door.  MRS.  ZSUPNIK  enters.  She 


$1200  A  YEAR  107 

is  still  in  working  clothes,  though  she  has 
tidied  her  hair  and  has  put  on  one  of  those 
aprons  heavily  bordered  with  thick  hand 
made  crochet.  It  is  the  kind  of  apron  that 
indicates  a  certain  temporary  release  from 
the  more  menial  tasks  of  housework.  A 
great  basket  of  unmended  clothing  is  in  one 
hand.] 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.    You  ain't  go  by  meeting? 

JEAN.    No. 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK  [comes  down].     I  bring  mend.     I 
think  I  sit  by  Martha  you  all  go  to  meeting. 

JEAN.     Martha's  going  to  see  a  friend. 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.    Oo.    Well,  I  sit  by  you. 

[Sinks  into  a  deep  chair,  takes  out  needle, 
thread,  thimble,  and  selects  from  the  pile  of 
freshly  washed  clothing  a  great  pair  of  red 
woollen  drawers — evidently  one  of  her 
husband's  garments.  This  she  finds  in  need 
of  repair  and  sets  about  the  task.] 

JEAN.     I— I'm  not  feeling  well,  I  have  a  head 
ache. 

MRS.    ZSUPNIK    [comfortably].     For    headache 
you  don't  go  meeting,  huh? 

JEAN.    Yes.     I  wanted  to  be — alone. 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK  [mending  skillfully].     Me  ain't 
go  by  meetings  neither. 

JEAN.     So  I  see. 


108  $1200  A  YEAR 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.  My  man  he  go  too  much 
meetings.  You  man  he  go  too  much  meetings. 

JEAN  [a  little  startled,  and  amused,  too].  What 
makes  you  think  so? 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.  I  know.  I  was.  Meetings 
is  always  for  hell  wit*  boss.  [Shakes  her  head 
vigorously.] 

JEAN.     Certainly  this  one  is. 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.  Sure.  All  meetings  is.  My  man 
he  is  crazy  fool.  I  am  mad  on  my  man  terrible! 

JEAN  [interested  in  spite  of  herself].  Why,  Mrs. 
Zsupnik? 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.  We  got  good.  We  got  swell. 
Swell  dress,  swell  furnish',  swell  automobile,  eat 
good.  What  he  want  that  big  crazy  fool  my  man ! 
Pretty  soon  by'm  by  ol'  McClure  he  get  mad.  I 
betcha. 

JEAN.     That's  a  queer  thing  for  you  to  say. 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK  [she  folds  the  red  under-drawers 
now  and  selects  another  garment].  You  know 
Krajiik? 

JEAN.    Who? 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.  Krajiik.  Work  in  mill.  Come 
from  place  in  old  kawn-tree  w'ere  I  come,  Chris 
my  ol'  man  come.  Krajiik  he  work  in  mill,  old 
woman  she  work  washing,  kids  they  work  run 
errands,  beg  wood  for  fire.  They  are  stingy  like 
anything — Krajiiks.  Nine  year  ago.  They  get 


91200  A  YEAR  109 

wages.  Put  always  away  more  money,  more 
money.  Krajiik  he  say  he  ain't  like  it  in  this  kawn- 
tree.  Mrs.  Krajiik  she  say  she  don't  like  in  this 
kawn-tree.  [She  is  growing  excited  now,  and  ani 
mated  as  she  goes  on  with  her  story.  Forgets  to  sew.] 
They  say  they  save  much  money  go  back  Bohemia 
live  fine;  Mrs.  Krajiik  she  say,  always,  "So  much 
piece  meat  in  ol'  kawn-tree  [indicates  an  infini 
tesimal  portion  with  her  thumb  and  forefinger]  got 
better  taste  than  all  meat  in  America."  Always 
they  make  like  this  [smacks  her  lips]  say  how  good 
is  meat  in  old  kawn-tree.  [She  laughs  a  fat,  com 
fortable  chuckle.] 

JEAN.     And  did  they  go? 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.  Sure  go.  They  got  t'ree, 
four  t'ousan'  dollar.  They  take  on  ship  feather 
bed,  music  box,  ice  cream  freezer,  sew'  machine, 
grape  jell — all  t'ings  they  take. 

JEAN.  To  make  their  neighbours  in  the  old 
country  envious,  of  course.  It  must  have  been 
wonderful. 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK  [calmly].  T'ree  mont'  Krajiik 
all  come  back. 

JEAN.     Really!     Why? 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK  [sewing  placidly].  You  know 
why  meat  taste  sweeter  in  Bohemia  as  here? 

JEAN.    Why? 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.     In  American  poor  man  he  eat 


110  $1200  A  YEAR 

t'ree  times  a  day  I  betcha.     In  ol'  kawn-tree  once 
a  month,  maybe.     That  is  why. 
JEAN.     Paul  would  like  that  story. 
MRS.  ZSUPNIK.     My  old  man  he  forgot.     He  got 
in  head  swell.     I  am  talk  mad  on  him  to-night. 
He  see.     Me  fix. 

JEAN.  You're  a  smart  woman,  Mrs.  Zsupnik. 
Do  you  know,  I  think  I'll  do  a  little  fixing  myself. 
[The  telephone  bell  rings.  JEAN  goes  to  bedroom  to 
answer  it.] 

JEAN.  Hello?  [The  doorbell  rings.  MRS. 
ZSUPNIK  glances  toward  bedroom.]  No,  he's  not 
at  home.  .  .  .  Not  until  quite  late,  I  think. 
•  .  .  [The  doorbell  rings  again.] 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK  [rises].     I  go.     [Goes  to  hall  door.] 
JEAN    [at    telephone].     Yes,    I    have    it.     Penn 
nine-nine-seven-three.     Yes,  I'll  tell  him.     .     .     . 
No,  you  can't  possibly  reach  him  now. 

[During  the  above  telephone  conversation  MRS. 
ZSUPNIK  has  ushered  in  the  caller,  CYRUS 
McCmRE.  McCLURE  is  a  small,  slightly 
built  man,  rather  wistful  and  kindly  in 
expression  and  manner.  Not  at  all  the 
high-handed,  hard-fisted,  ruthless  million 
aire  mill  owner  depicted  by  the  yellow 
journal  cartoons.  All  his  life  he  has  felt 
handicapped  by  his  lack  of  education  and 
he  now  contributes  large  sums  to  various 


91800  A  YEAR  111 

educational  institutions.  He  has  never 
got  over  a  certain  awkwardness  and  diffi 
dence  in  the  presence  of  those  more  cultured 
than  himself.  Before  MCCLURE'S  entrance 
there  have  been  sounds  of  a  slight  altercation 
in  the  hall.  McCLURE  is  still  protesting 
gently  as  he  comes  in,  followed  by  the  gesticu 
lating  MRS.  ZSUPNIK.] 

McCLURE.  But,  my  good  woman,  I  tell  you 
I  am. 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK  [regards  him  contemptuously]. 
No!  In  newspaper  all  rich  mens  is  got  high  hat, 
shiny. 

McCLURE.  But  I  don't  even  own  a  silk  hat. 
I  hate  silk  hats.  [JEAN  enters  from  bedroom.] 

JEAN.  Mr.  McClure!  This  is  generous  of 
you. 

McCLURE.  Not  at  all,  my  dear  lady.  [MRS. 
ZSUPNIK  shows  her  alarm  and  confusion.]  I've 
trudged  miles  across  the  moor  when  I  was  a  lad 
to  see  a  lassie  not  half  so  pretty  as  you. 

JEAN.  When  I  telephoned  you  it  was  to  ask 
you  to  allow  me  to  come  to  see  you.  I  hardly 
hoped  you'd  see  me.  I  never  dreamed  you'd  offer 
to  come  here. 

McCLURE.  And  why  not,  why  not?  You  look 
to  me  like  a  woman  who  is  accustomed  to  getting 
what  she  wants — and  a  little  more.  [Turns  to 


A  TEAR 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.]  Your  maid  here  almost  refused 
to  let  me  in,  though  I  gave  her  my  name.  She 
thought  I  didn't  look  the  part. 

JEAN.  But  that  is  our  upstairs  neighbour, 
Mrs.  Zsupnik.  [MRS.  ZSUPNIK,  her  eyes  starting 
from  her  head,  drops  a  curtsey,  one  corner  of  her 
apron  in  her  trembling  fingers.] 

McCLURE.  Zsupnik — Zsupnik?  Have  you  a 
daughter,  Madam? 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK.  Tony.  [Drops  another  old- 
world  curtsey.] 

McCmRE.  [His  face  hardens  here  and  you  see 
the  power  that  has  made  him  what  he  is].  Tony. 
That's  the  girl.  .  .  . .  So  you're  her  mother? 
Friend  of  yours?  [To  JEAN.] 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK  [hurriedly].  I  go.  [Scuttles  over 
to  chair  near  which  her  pile  of  mending  lies;  gathers 
it  up  in  her  arms.]  I  go.  [Toward  door.  As  she 
passes  McCLURE  stops  to  drop  another  curtsey].  I 
go.  [Goes.] 

McCmRE  [wonder ingly].  She  seemed  fright 
ened. 

JEAN.     Won't  you  sit  down?    Here. 

McCmRE.  Thanks.  [Sits.  He  places  his  black 
fedora  carefully  on  the  floor  by  the  side  of  his  chair 
as  a  labouring  man  might.] 

JEAN.     Oh,  do  let  me  take  that! 

McCLURE.     No,    no.     It's    all    right.     Don't 


$1200  A  YEAR  113 

bother.  [Looks  about  the  room.  Sits  back.]  Well, 
this  is  comfortable. 

JEAN.    Yes,  but 

McCLURE.     But  you  don't  like  it,  h'm? 

JEAN.     Mr.  McClure,  I'm  wretched  here. 

McCLURE.  You  don't  belong  here,  ma'am. 
Any  more  than  a  college  professor  belongs  in  a 
mill. 

JEAN.  The  dreadful  part  of  it  is  he  likes  it. 
He's  happy. 

McCLURE.  Happy!  Of  course  he's  happy. 
This  very  minute  he's  probably  telling  my  men 
from  the  platform  that  I'm  a  tyrant  and  an  octopus. 
[Plaintively.]  Now,  I'm  not  an  octopus,  Mrs. 
Stoddard. 

JEAN.  I'm  sure  you're  not.  But  people  seem 
to  think 

McCLURE.  That's  just  it.  People  seem  to 
think,  but  they  don't.  They  let  someone  do  their 
thinking  for  them.  And  somebody  has  told  them 
that  a  mill  owner  is  a  fat  man  in  a  Prince  Albert 
and  a  diamond  stud  and  ring  and  a  silk  hat  slightly 
on  one  side.  And  a  large,  black  cigar.  Now  I 
haven't  one  of  those  things,  Mrs.  Stoddard. 
Except  the  cigar.  And  I  can't  possibly  smoke 
those  black  ones.  They  don't  agree  with  me.  I 
smoke  the  very  mildest  panatellas. 

JEAN.    Won't  you  smoke  now? 


114  $1200  A  YEAR 

McCLURE.  Thanks.  If  you're  sure  you  don't 
mind. 

JEAN.     Mind !     My  husband  smokes  a  pipe. 

McCLURE  [as  he  takes  from  his  pocket  a  slim 
and  very  pale  cigar.  Lights  it].  As  I  was  saying. 
[Puffs.]  I'm  really  a  peace-loving  man  with  a 
knack  at  making  money.  I  can't  help  it.  I  think 
of  things,  and  try  them,  and  they  work.  But  I 
don't  like  to  be  dictated  to. 

JEAN.  Neither  does  my  husband.  That's  how 
the  trouble  started. 

McCLURE.  Perhaps  that  was  a  mistake.  But 
we  really  must  protect  ourselves,  Mrs.  Stoddard, 
or  where  would  we  be!  Millionaires  nowaday 
are  so  downtrodden.  I  can't  have  them  talking 
about  unions  and  labour  in  the  university,  you 
know. 

JEAN.  But  those  were  fifteenth-century  unions. 
McCmRE.  H'm.  I'll  warrant  in  those  days 
they  never  thought  of  a  six -hour  day  with  twelve- 
hour  pay.  Why,  I  can't  call  my  mills  my  own, 
and  I  worked  hard  for  every  penny  in  'em.  I 
practically  built  this  town.  I  built  the  university. 
I'm  not  a  man  of  education  myself,  ma'am,  but  I 
made  up  my  mind  my  son  Steven  should  have  the 
best.  And  what  comes  of  it?  He  learns  socialism 
and  all  kinds  of  devilment  in  the  school,  and  is  off 
with  a  little  hussy  who  works  in  my  mills.  What 


* 
•' 

s 


A  YEAR  115 

next,  I  say?  What  next?  A  man  must  protect 
himself. 

JEAN.  After  all,  the  thing  my  husband  is  asking 
for  is  fair  enough. 

McCLURE.     I  won't  be  bullied. 

JEAN.     My  husband  is  not  a  bully,  Mr.  McClure ! 

McCLURE.     What  do  you  call  it  then? 

JEAN.     He's  determined  to  get  what  he  wants. 

McCLURE.  And  I'm  bound  to  keep  what  I've 
got. 

JEAN.     You  and  I  will  never  agree  at  this  rate. 

McCLURE.  I  hear  you're  a  sensible  little 
woman,  with  no  nonsense  about  you.  Oh,  I 
find  out  these  things.  I  know  very  well  you're 
unhappy  down  here.  That's  why  I  wanted  to 
talk  to  you.  You  and  I  together  may  set  this 
thing  right. 

JEAN.    How? 

McCLURE.  Now  I  think "  you"  know,  Mrs. 
Stoddard,  that  I've  always  taken  the  greatest  pride 
in  the  university.  I  don't  say  I'm  a  philanthro 
pist,  or  an  educator,  but  I  have  my  little  weak 
nesses,  and  the  university  is  one  of  them.  There 
isn't  a  finer  set  of  buildings  in  the  country.  Pure 
Gothic,  the  architect  assured  me.  And  the  plumb 
ing  alone — you  wouldn't  believe.  Well,  after  that 
it's  pretty  hard  to  have  a  young  whipper-snapper 
going  up  and  down  the  land  referring  to  me  as  a 


116  91200  A  YEAR 

foe  of  education,  ma'am.  And  a  blight — I  believe 
he  called  it  a  blight — on  the  youth  of  the  country. 
I  don't  mind  being  called  a  Moloch.  I'm  used  to  it. 
But  a  blight!  Well! 

JEAN.    But  you  don't  understand. 

McCLURE.  I  do  understand.  If  you'll  excuse 
me.  I'm  being  hounded  into  doing  something. 
Hounded  and  bullied.  And  I  won't  be  bullied, 
I'm  too — too 

JEAN  [thoughtlessly].  Scotch?  [And  wishes  she 
hadn't.] 

McCLURE.  Firm.  I've  thought  of  a  plan. 
Every  educator,  every  newspaper,  every  periodical 
in  the  country  has  come  out  with  a  speech  or  an 
article  that  I  pay  my  mill  men  ten  times  the  salary 
of  the  professors  on  the  Hill.  Of  course,  it's  as 
plain  as  the  law  of  supply  and  demand.  Six 
months  of  this,  and  what  happens?  Men  from 
all  over  the  country  are  swarming  here  into 
WicMey,  asking  for  jobs  in  my  mill.  Yesterday 
there  was  such  a  crowd  of  well-dressed  applicants 
clamouring  at  the  superintendent's  office  that  he 
had  to  call  the  police.  The  town  is  full  of  them. 
The  hotels  can't  accommodate  them.  The  boarding- 
houses  are  turning  them  away.  Clerks,  teachers, 
book-keepers,  accountants,  they're  all  asking  for 
overalls  and  thirty  a  day,  to  start  with.  The 
curious  part  of  it  is  they  make  good  workers — 


$1200  A  YEAR  117 

especially  the  professors.     They  think  at  their  job, 
and  do  it  in  half  the  time.     Well,  what's  the  result  ? 
JEAN  [breathlessly].     I  don't  know.     I  hope  it 
isn't  something  unpleasant. 

McCLURE.    Wages  come  down. 

JEAN  [starts  to  her  feet  in  alarm].  Oh,  but  they 
can't.  They  mustn't. 

McCLURE.  But  they  can.  They  do.  And 
who's  to  blame?  Your  husband,  ma'am.  They're 
meeting  to-night,  to  protest.  And  who's  leading 
the  meeting?  The  very  man  who's  responsible 
for  the  condition  of  things.  I  may  be  Scotch,  but 
I  can  see  the  humour  of  that. 

JEAN.  You  can't  blame  Paul  for  conditions  in 
your  mills.  They're  your  fault. 

McCLURE.  I  do  blame  him.  And  while  we're 
about  it  I  blame  him  for  my  son  Steve's  infatua 
tion  for  that  little  mill  girl.  He  sees  her  here. 
Do  you  think  I've  worked  and  planned  and  saved 
all  these  years,  and  built  the  big  house  up  on  the 
Hill  for  a  little  ignorant  Polack  in  white  shoes  and 
a  feather  in  her  hat? 

JEAN.     Bohemian. 

McCLURE.     Same  thing.     My  son's  a  fool! 

JEAN.    He's  a  dear! 

McCLURE.  Same  thing.  I  won't  have  it.  I 
won't  have  him  throwing  himself  away.  I'll  turn 
him  out  first.  I'll  disinherit  him. 


118  $1200  A  YEAR 

JEAN.  We're  not  coming  to  an  understanding, 
are  we? 

McCLURE.     At  least  we  understand  each  other. 

JEAN.  And  you'll  admit,  won't  you,  that  my 
husband  is  more — well,  more  active  in  the  mills 
than  he  was  at  the  university. 

McCmRE.    Yes,  yes. 

JEAN.  It  might  even  be  better  to  have  him 
back  there.  [As  McCLURE  does  not  answer.} 
Mightn't  it? 

McCLURE.     I  won't  be  bullied  into  it. 

JEAN.  You  could  do  all  the  bullying — really. 
You  know  how  popular  my  husband  is  with  the 
men  in  the  mills.  They've  made  him  a  member 
of  the  shop  committee,  They  ask  his  advice 
about  every  move  they  make.  He  has  a — a  way 
with  him,  you  know.  And  they  like  it.  Chris 
Zsupnik,  who  is  pretty  much  of  a  power  him 
self  among  the  men,  just  follows  him  around  like 
a  slave. 

McCLURE.  I  know,  I  know.  I  can't  call  my 
mills  my  own. 

JEAN.  But  if  the  men  are  told  that  wages  must 
come  down,  and  that  Paul  is  responsible  for  their 
coming  down,  why  then 

McCLURE.  That's  just  my  idea.  But  I  hardly 
thought  you'd  see  the  force  of  it,  much  less  suggest 
it. 


$1200  A  YEAR  119 

JEAN.    But  it's  so  simple. 

McCLURE.  Any  plan  that  will  stop  him  talking. 
I  don't  believe  I  could  stand  another  month 
of  this.  I'm  a  plain  man,  Mrs.  Stoddard,  but  I 
have  my  pride.  And  to  find  the  press  and  pulpit 
of  a  whole  country  against  you,  ma'am,  is — well, 
it's  too  much.  There  are  some  things  that  even 
a  millionaire  won't  submit  to. 

JEAN  [eagerly].  Will  you  see  them  to-night? 
Before  he  talks  in  Pittsburgh  to-morrow  night? 
He  has  a  new  speech.  Much  stronger  than  any 
of  the  others. 

McCLURE.    See  who? 

JEAN.  The  committee.  Paul  was  to  see  a 
committee  here  before  speaking  to-night.  The 
meeting  will  be  over  at  ten.  Send  them  word  you'll 
see  them.  At  once. 

McCLURE.  Oh,  dear!  I  always  go  to  bed 
at  ten. 

JEAN.  It  means  so  much.  You  know  what 
Sunday  is  down  here.  They  talk  and  talk,  and 
smoke  their  pipes,  and  talk  and  talk.  Give  them 
this  to  talk  about.  Don't  you  see.  If  you  tell 
them  you  won't  listen  to  them  so  long  as  my 
husband  is  active  among  them.  If  they  know  that 
he  is  really  responsible  for  the  lowering  of  wages — 
don't  you  see? 

MCCLURE.    H'm. 


120  $1200  A   YEAR 

JEAN.     I  don't  want  to  be  rude.    But  it's  after 
nine. 

McCLURE.     I'll  be  going.     [Picks  up  his  hat. 
Pauses.]     If  nothing  comes  of  this — or  too  much. 
[Doubtfully.]     But    after    all,    why    not?    Wages 
must  come  down   some   time.     Why   not   now? 
Myself,  I  think  it's  a  good  move. 
JEAN.    People  misjudge  you,  Mr.  McClure. 
McCLURE.     Well,  it's  my  own  doings,  largely. 
I  have  to  talk  loud,  and  bluster,  to  keep  my  cour 
age  up.     Like  the  boy  whistling  past  the  grave 
yard.     I'll  be  going. 

JEAN.    You'll    see    them    to-night — the    shop 
committee? 

McCLURE.     I'll  send  word  now. 
JEAN.     Oh,  thank   you.     [They   shake   hands] 
Good-bye. 

McCLURE.     Good-night      to      you,      ma'am. 
[McCLURE  goes] 

[JEAN  stands  a  moment.    She  smiles  to  herself. 
Laughs  a  delighted  little  laugh.    Glances  at 
her  own  reflection  in  the  mirror,  gives  her  hair 
i  an  approving  little  pat.    Goes  to  piano,  begins 

to  play  a  gay  little  bar  or  two.  MARTHA,  in 
street  clothes,  her  hat  awry,  rushes  in  from 
dining  room.  It  is  evident  that  she  has  just 
come  from  her  visit  and  that  she  bears 
exciting  news.  She  is  breathless,  red-faced] 


$1200  A  YEAR 

MARTHA.    Oh,  Mis'  Stoddard,  ma'am! 

JEAN.     What  is  it,  Martha? 

MARTHA.  I  was  visitin'  Mary,  my  friend  on 
the  Hill,  and  oh,  Mis'  Stoddard,  ma'am!  The 
college  perfessers — the  college  perfessers — oh, 
ma'am ! 

JEAN.    Yes!    What 

MARTHA.  Gone,  ma'am.  Out!  Quit!  Every 
last  one  of  'em.  The  college  is  closed. 

JEAN.  Oh,  what  have  I  done!  What  have  I 
done!  [Stands,  horrified,  wide-eyed,  as  curtain 
descends.} 


ACT  III 


ACT  III 

SCENE:  Library  in  CYRUS  McCmRE's  house  on 
the  Hill.  Ten  o'clock  the  same  evening.  There 
are  bookshelves  with  conventional  sets  of  books  in 
expensive  leather  and  gold  bindings.  They  have 
an  unread  look.  The  furniture  is  of  the  massive 
type.  Great  chairs,  a  long  table-desk  with  broad, 
heavy  top  almost  big  enough  for  a  directors9  meet 
ing.  The  table  is  at  the  right,  one  end  toward  the 
audience.  A  chair,  huge  and  deep-seated,  is 
placed  at  the  table.  The  effect  of  the  room  is 
sombre,  rich,  and  rather  lonely.  When  CYRUS 
McCLURE  is  in  it  he  looks  very  small  and 
insignificant  and  uncomfortable.  There  is  a  door 
centre,  back.  A  very  bad  portrait  of  MRS. 
McCLURE  (deceased)  hangs  on  the  wall,  left, 
back.  A  plain  lady  who  should  not  have  worn 
that  dress. 

When  the  curtain  rises  the  stage  is  empty,  and 
rather  dim.  After  a  brief  wait  the  door,  back,  is 
opened  and  CYRUS  McCLURE  comes  in.  He 
is  wearing  the  shabby  fedora  and  the  unprepossess 
ing  clothes  of  the  previous  act.  As  he  sidles  in 

125 


126  $1200  A  YEAR 

and  peers  about  the  big  room  he  looks  less  than  ever 
the  powerful  millionaire  steel  magnate. 

He  takes  off  his  hat  as  he  comes  down  and  tosses 
it  on  a  chair.    He  turns  up  a  lamp  and  looks  about 
the  big  room,  and  shivers  just  a  little,  not  with  cold, 
and  rubs  his  hands  together.     He  looks  at  his  watch. 
Goes  to  telephone  at  end  of  table,  picks  it  up. 
McCLURE.     Millville    seven    double    one.     [A 
brief  wait.].     .    .    .     Burke?     .     .     .     Well?  . 
You  say  you  did.     .     .     .     When'll  they  be  up? 
.     .     .     [Sighs.]     It's   almost   that  now.     .     .     . 
'Bye.     .     .     .    [He  hangs  up  the  receiver  and  stands 
a  moment].     Oh,  dear,  dear!     [Glances  around  the 
big  room  again.    A  pile  of  unopened  newspapers  is 
neatly  stacked  at  one  corner  of  the  great  table.     He 
selects  one  from  the  top  of  the  pile,  opens  it  to  an  in 
side  page,  reads,  brings  it  suddenly  together  ivith  a 
crash,  rolls  it  into  a  ball,  and  drops  it  on  the  floor. 
Then  sweeps  the  whole  pile  into  the  waste  basket. 
Evidently  he  is  not  pleased  at  what  he  has  read. 
Stands  a  moment,  as  before.     Looks  at  watch  again. 
Goes  slowly  over  to  portrait  of  MRS.  MC€LURE  and 
stands  looking  up  at  it,  his  back  to  the  audience, 
his  attitude  one  of  depression.     Turns  slowly  and 
comes  back  to  desk.     He  lights  one  of  his  pale,  thin 
cigars  and  takes  up  his  position  behind  the  table, 
standing  just  in  front  of  the  chair  as  though  facing 
an  imaginary  committee.     Strikes  an  attitude  sup- 


$1800  A  YEAR  127 

posed  to  convey  impression  of  powerful  and  relentless 
mill  owner.  He  sinks  into  chair  behind  him  and  is 
almost  completely  engulfed  in  its  capacious  depths. 
His  head  peers  wistfully  out  from  its  wing  sides. 
He  realizes  that  this  will  never  do.  Rises,  and  with 
great  deal  of  tugging  and  pushing  manages  to  move 
the  great  chair  to  one  side.  In  its  place  he  puts  a 
small,  straight-backed,  armless  chair,  rather  high" 
seated.  He  sits  in  this,  removes  his  old-fashioned 
spectacles  and  takes  from  a  case  a  pair  of  tortoise- 
rimmed,  large-lensed  eye-glasses  with  a  heavy  black 
cord.  These  he  places  on  his  nose,  leans  back,  ex 
tends  his  chest,  and  brings  one  fist  down  on  the  table9 
hard.  He  is  ready  for  them.  The  door  opens  and 
STEVEN  enters.  He  is  plainly  excited.] 

STEVEN.  Is  it  true  you've  sent  for  the  men  to 
come  here? 

McCLURE.     I'm  expecting  'em  now. 

STEVEN.  But  what's  the  matter  with  Burke? 
What's  the  matter  with  Callahan?  They've  al 
ways  run  off  this  kind  of  thing  for  you.  You've 
never  dealt  directly  with  the  men  before. 

McCLURE.  Then  it's  high  time.  You're  a 
slow  young  fella.  Don't  you  know  this  Brother 
hood  of  Man  is  all  the  go?  It's  what  they  call 
the  personal  touch  that's  all  the  rage  now.  That's 
how  it's  done.  I'll  show  the  newspapers  I'm  a 
humane  man. 


128  91^00  A  YEAR 

STEVEN  [comes  down  to  other  side  of  table].  But. 
father,  you  can't  lower  wages.  Why,  you — you 
can't. 

McCLURE.     Raised  'em,  didn't  I? 

STEVEN.    That's  different. 

McCLURE.     Who's  saying  I  can't? 

STEVEN.  Why,  any  beginner  in  political  econ 
omy — any  freshman  in  economics  knows  that. 

McCLURE.  In  my  mill  I  run  my  own  politics 
and  do  my  own  economizing. 

STEVEN.  You  know  the  men  won't  stand  for 
it.  You  can't  force  that  kind  of  thing.  It  just 
happens. 

McCLURE.  If  I'd  sat  around  all  my  life  waiting 
for  things  to  happen  I'd  be  night  watchman  in 
the  mills  by  now.  It's  making  things  happen 
when  I  wanted  'em  to  that's  put  me  where  I  am. 
They're  yelling  that  labour  is  getting  the  money 
that  brains  ought  to  have.  Raising  the  one  won't 
help  the  other.  They've  got  to  come  down  some 
time.  I'm  the  man  to  start  it.  I'll  show  them 
they  can't  bully  me.  The  whole  world's  upside 
down.  It  needs  a  man  of  common  sense  to  right  it. 

STEVEN.  They'll  never  stand  for  it,  I  tell  you. 
You'll  have  a  wholesale  strike  on  your  hands. 

McCLURE.  There'll  be  plenty  of  professois 
to  break  it. 

STEVEN.    Father,  you've  gone  mad  with  power. 


$1200  A  YEAR  129 

A  modern  Moloch  riding  ruthlessly  over  the  pros 
trate  forms  of  his  helpless  victims ! 

McCLURE.  There  he  goes!  Moloch!  Is  it 
any  wonder  the  world's  against  me  and  the  news 
papers  a  mass  of  lies  when  my  own  son Now, 

look  here,  young  man.  It's  time  you  were  learning. 
You'll  stay  here  while  the  men  are  with  me.  And 
before  I  forget  it  understand  this:  I'll  have  no 
more  running  around  with  a  little  Polack  from 
the  Flats.  A  fine  state  of  affairs  for  a  son  of 
Cyrus  McClure.  It's  a  wonder  your  poor  mother 
doesn't  come  back  to  haunt  you. 

STEVEN.  She  was  an  immigrant  Scotch  girl 
herself  when  you  married  her,  with  a  shawl  over 
her  head.  You've  often  said  so. 

McCLURE.  Yes,  and  I'm  proud  of  it.  If 
there  were  more  shawls  to-day  on  those  that  should 
be  wearing  'em  instead  of  feathers  and  silks  there'd 
be  less  screeching  about  strikes  and  wages. 

STEVEN.  Tony  earns  her  feathers  and  silks, 
poor  child,  in  the  stifling  clamour  of  factory 
wheels. 

McCLURE.  Stifling  fiddlesticks.  There's  more 
windows  in  the  factory  than  bricks,  and  as  for 
clamour  you  could  hear  a  pin  drop  with  the  new 
machinery.  The  trouble  with  you  is  you're  years 
behind  the  times,  with  your  ranting  ideas.  But 
make  no  mistake  about  this :  any  more  of  that  girl 


130  $1200  A  YEAR 

and  out  you  go.     I  won't  have  it.     Not  a  penny 
of  mine  do  you  get. 

STEVEN  [grandly].  I  am  beyond  the  reach  of 
mere  money's  power. 

McCLURE.  Maybe  so.  [Takes  paper  from 
drawer  in  table-desk.]  Here's  your  last  month's 
bill  for  gas  and  repairs.  It'd  have  kept  your 
mother  and  me  for  a  year  when  I  was  your  age. 
Being  beyond  the  reach  of  mere  money's  power 
you'll  no  mind  paying  it  yourself. 

STEVEN  [turns  away,  running  a  frenzied  hand 
through  his  hair].  Oh! 

McCLURE.  Myself,  if  there's  anything  I  hate 
it's  meeting  a  committee.  And  when  I  might  be 
upstairs  in  my  bed  reading  that  new ;  detective 
story  "The  Crimson  Emerald."  Maybe  I've  time 
for  a  peek  at  it.  [Listens.]  There  they  are  now. 
Open  the  door,  Steve. 

STEVEN  [to  door,  opens  it].  Come  in,  please. 
[McCLURE  resumes  his  tortoise-rimmed  glasses 
and  his  most  imposing  manner.  Enter 
CHRIS  ZSUPNIK,  OTTO  KRAJIIK,  and 
Louis  POLINSKI.  They  are  all  wearing 
their  store  clothes.  CHRIS  ZSUPNIK  is 
good-natured  and  clumsy  as  usual,  and  his 
grin  is  as  cheerfully  friendly  as  it  was  in 
the  STODDARD'S  flat.  Perhaps  he  is  more 
at  ease  than  the  other  two,  the  STODDARD'S 


$1200  A  YEAR  131 

living  room  having  accustomed  him  to  fine 
surroundings.     KRAJIIK  is  a  young  fellow, 
enormously  tall  and  broad-shouldered,  with 
huge,    awkward    hands    and  feet    and    a 
thick  neck.     He  is  of  the  slow-witted,  stub 
born  type.     His  clothes  are  more  dashing 
than  those  of  the  other  two  men.     He  has 
a  fondness  for  those  bull-dog  toe  yellow 
shoes  and  striped  shirts  and  nobby  suits. 
POLINSKI   is  the  firebrand,   small,   dark, 
voluble — a  trouble  maker.} 
McCmRE.     Good  evening,  men. 
ZSUPNIK  [genially].    How-do!     [Looks  about  the 
room.] 

KRAJIIK.  Good  evening!  [POLINSKI  merely 
gives  a  surly  nod.} 

McCmRE.   Now  let's  see.  You're ?   [Points 

to  KRAJIIK.] 

KRAJIIK.    Krajiik. 

McCLURE.    You're ^[Points  to  POLINSKI.] 

POLINSKI.    Polinski. 
MCCLURE.    And  you?     [To  ZSUPNIK.] 
ZSUPNIK.  Me  Chris  Zsupnik.  How-do!  [Clumps 
forward  and  grasps  McC LURE'S  hand,  shaking  it 
heartily.] 

McCLURE.  Zsupnik!  Zsupnik!  [Glares  at 
STEVEN  who  is  standing  back.]  You've  got  a 
daughter? 


$1^00  A   YEAR 

ZSUPNIK.  Sure.  Tony.  Steve,  he  know  my 
Tony.  [To  STEVEN.]  Ain't  you?  Sure.  [At  this 
OTTO  KRA JIIK  steps  forward,  his  big  hands  doubled 
into  fists.] 

KRAJIIK  [threateningly].  Yeh,  he  know  Tony. 
[STEVEN  retreats  a  little.] 

ZSUPNIK  [grins].    Krajiik,  he  know  my  Tony,  too. 

McCLURE.  I'm  meeting  the  family  this  even 
ing.  [To  STEVEN.]  I  suppose  the  young  lady 
herself  s  in  the  hall,  as  a  surprise. 

STEVEN.  Now,  father !  [He  places  chairs  for  the 
three  men,  in  a  semicircle,  facing  McCLURE  at  the 
desk.  They  fumble  awkwardly  with  their  hats. 
KRAJIIK  drops  his,  starts  as  though  he  had  dropped 
a  bomb,  stoops,  recovers  it.] 

McCLURE.     Good  meeting? 

ZSUPNIK.     Ibetcha! 

McCLURE.  Usual  testimonial  to  me,  I  suppose? 
[ZSUPNIK  and  KRAJIIK  look  at  each  other,  sheepishly. 
ZSUPNIK  grins.] 

POLINSKI.     No  for  cut  wages. 

McCLURE.  What  are  you  making  a  day, 
Polinski? 

POLINSKI.     Twenty-five.     Boss  heater. 

McCLURE.     Zsupnik? 

ZSUPNIK.  Twenty -two  fifty  steady.  Overtime 
thirty  maybe  more.  Puddler. 

McCLURE.     Krajiik? 


$1200  A  YEAR  133 

KRAJIIK.     Thirty.     Roller. 

McCLURE.  A  poor  downtrodden  lot  you  are! 
When  I  worked  hi  the  mills  as  a  boy  I  was  glad 
to  get  my  four  a  day  on  a  twelve-hour  day  and  we 
worked  two  shifts. 

POLINSKI  [very  surly].     Now  is  different. 

McCLURE.  You're  right.  I  own  the  mills 
now.  The  men  in  it  are  kicking  at  an  eight -hour 
day  and  I'm  working  eighteen. 

ZSUPNIK.     By  golly  I  was  glad  I  am  puddler! 

McCLURE.  You  can  well  be.  Look  at  the 
three  of  ye!  Dressed  to  the  gills  in  the  latest 
fashion!  I  haven't  had  a  new  suit  of  clothes  in 
three  years.  Can't  afford  it.  Corporation  taxes 
— income  taxes — excess  profit  taxes — luxury  taxes 
— war  taxes — surtaxes.  It's  all  I  can  do  to  keep 
body  and  soul  together. 

POLINSKI  [stubbornly].     No  stand  for  cut  wages. 

McCLURE.  I  passed  Krieger's  Hall  to-night, 
where  you  were  holding  your  meeting.  You 
couldn't  get  within  a  block  of  the  place  for  the 
automobiles  lined  up — and  I  didn't  notice  any 
flivvers  among  'em,  either. 

KRAJIIK  [slowly  and  dully,  but  in  a  good-natured* 
chatty  way].  You  see  my  car  red — green  wheel — 
yellow  top?  Snappy  six. 

MCCLURE.  When  I  was  your  age  I  was  glad 
to  have  sole  leather  to  walk  in. 


134  $1200  A  YEAR 

POLINSKI  [with  dogged  repetition].  Now  is  differ 
ent. 

RRAJIIK.  Sure.  Working  man  he  is  whole 
thing  now. 

MC€LURE.  What  do  you  do  with  your  money, 
Krajiik,  besides  buying  automobiles  and  swell 
clothes  with  it? 

KRAJIIK.     Send  money  Bohemia. 

McCLURE.  What  foreign  nation  are  you  sup 
porting  with  American  money,  Polinski? 

POLINSKI.     Huh? 

ZSUPNIK  [to  POLINSKI].  Boss  say  where  you 
send  the  postal  money  order  every  month. 

POLINSKI.  Poland.  [Then,  suspiciously.]  What 
is  your  business  where  is  send  money  order? 

McCLURE.  Zsupnik,  you've  got  your  family 
here,  haven't  you? 

ZSUPNIK.  I  got  three  sister  in  Bohemia  all  got 
plenty  kids  and  poor  like  hell. 

McCLURE.  Far  as  I  can  make  it  out  I'm  the 
chief  support  of  Czecho-Slovakia  and  all  points 
west. 

POLINSKI  [suspiciously.]  What  he  say?  [ZSUPNIK 
shrugs  uncomprehending  shoulders.] 

MCCLURE.  Bacon  for  breakfast  every  morning, 
I'll  be  bound. 

ZSUPNIK.     Sure,  bacon. 

McCLURE.     And  eggs? 


A  YEAR  135 

ZSUPNIK.     Well,  sure,  eggs. 

McCLURE.     Cream  in  your  coffee? 

ZSUPNIK.     Sure  t'ing! 

KRAJIIK  [falling  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing]. 
Sunday  eat  roast  pig,  ice  cream,  stand  on  corner 
smoke  fine  cigar. 

POLINSKI  [fiercely,  and  speaking  in  Polish].  Shut 
up  your  mouth,  fool!  Don't  you  see  the  boss  is 
making  you  ridiculous?  He  finds  out  everything 
and  then  he  will  show  you  what  he  will  do. 

KRAJIICK  [replies  in  Polish].  He  is  the  fool,  not 
I.  What  do  I  care  about  him!  I  do  as  I  please. 

POLINSKI  [in  Polish].     Wait.     You  will  see. 

McCLURE  [to  STEVEN].  You're  a  college  man, 
Steve.  What's  that  jabber  mean? 

STEVEN.  They're  talking  hunky,  you  know.  I 
don't  understand  it. 

McCLURE  [to  ZSUPNIK].  What  are  they  saying, 
Zsupnik? 

ZSUPNIK  [he  is  very  uncomfortable].  Not'ing, 
not 'ing.  They  make  fight  between  each  other. 

McCLURE.  Yes,  but  what  do  they  say?  [ZSUPNIK 
shrugs  his  shoulders.  POLINSKI  laughs.  KRAJIIK 
keeps  sullen  silence.] 

McCLURE  [quietly].  Maybe  it  was  something 
like  this:  Polinski  says  to  Krajiik:  "Shut  up,  you 
fool!  The  boss  will  find  out  everything  and  then 
he  will  fix  you!"  [The  three  stare  at  McCLURE  in 


136  $1200  A  YEAR 

open-mouthed  consternation  as  he  goes  on].  And 
Krajiik  says  to  Polinski,  "The  boss  is  the  fool,  not 
me.  What  do  I  care  for  him !  I  do  as  I  like." 

ZSUPNIK.     By  golly!    He  know  evert'ing! 

STEVEN.    How  did  you  know  that,  Dad ! 

POLINSKI  [under  his  breath}.     Damn! 

McCLURE.  Didn't  I  work  long  enough  in  the 
mills  myself?  Those  days  it  was  mostly  Scotch 
and  Irish,  but  there  was  a  sprinkling  of  Hunkies, 
too,  and  I  picked  up  a  bit  of  their  jabber.  Oh, 
the  old  man  ain't  such  a  fool.  [His  manner  sud 
denly  takes  on  a  new  and  grim  determination.]  Now, 
then,  we  understand  each  other.  Let's  quit  the 
comedy  and  get  down  to  business.  Steve,  you're 
excused. 

STEVEN.     But  I  want  to  stay. 

McCLURE.  From  now  on  this  room  is  no  place 
for  a  friend  of  the  toiler. 

STEVEN.     But,  father! 

McCLURE.  Out  you  go!  [STEVEN  goes,  un 
willingly.  He  does  not  completely  close  the  door 
behind  him] 

McCLURE.  And  close  that  door.  [The  door  is 
closed  with  a  slam.]  If  anybody 'd  told  you  boys 
twenty  years  ago  that  you'd  be  earning  what  you 
are  to-day  you'd  have  put  him  down  as  the  village 
idiot,  wouldn't  you?  Crazy? 

ZSUPNIK.    I  betcha. 


$1200  A  YEAR  137 

McCLURE.  When  I  was  a  hand  it  was  few 
eggs  I  got  to  eat  and  they  were  three  dozen  for  a 
quarter. 

POLINSKI.     Eggs  is  dollar  a  dozen. 

McCLURE.  I  know  it.  But  twenty-five  cents 
looked  a  dollar  to  me  those  days.  My  wife  had 
one  dress  outside  the  ones  she  wore  to  do  the  house 
work  and  she  made  it  herself.  My  pay  slip  for 
the  week's  work  wasn't  as  much  as  yours  is  for 
the  day,  but  we  saved  money.  Automobiles  were 
never  thought  of  then,  or  if  they  were  they  were 
called  horseless  carriages  and  thought  a  joke,  like 
a  trip  to  Mars.  The  wife  made  my  shirts  herself, 
and  cut  my  pants  down  to  fit  little  Stevie,  and  I 
knew  a  trick  or  two  about  cobbling  shoes  myself. 
Now  I  see  shoes  in  the  store  windows  in  the  Flats 
marked  twenty  dollars  a  pair  and  not  an  inch  of 
honest  leather  in  them. 

KRAJIIK.  Earn  big  money  spend  how  much  I 
feel  like.  Is  my  business. 

McCLURE.  I'm  not  begrudging  you  your  auto 
mobiles,  and  your  pork  roasts,  and  your  silk  shirts, 
and  your  good  cigars.  You  won't  have  them 
much  longer. 

POLINSKI  [on  his  feet  at  once}.  Who  say  we  don't! 

McCLURE.     Stoddard. 

ZSUPNIK.  What's  matter  Stoddard?  He  my 
friend. 


138  $1000  A  YEAR 

McCLURE  [laughs].  Yes,  he  is!  Don't  you 
know  it's  Stoddard  who's  bringing  wages  down? 

POLINSKI.  Stoddard  talk  in  Krieger's  Hall  to 
night  say  wages  got  stay  up.  What  you  think  we 
crazy? 

McCLURE.  He's  fooling  you.  You  know  the 
town's  full  of  men,  don't  you? 

POLINSKI.     Yes. 

McCLURE.  What  brought  them  here?  [The  three 
shrug  their  shoulders.]  Stoddard !  He's  been  talking 
all  over  the  country,  and  writing  for  all  the  papers 
telling  that  I  pay  big  wages  in  the  mills.  What 
brought  up  wages?  Scarcity  of  hands.  What's 
going  to  bring  'em  down?  Plenty  of  workers.  Go 
round  to  the  superintendent's  office  to-morrow. 
You'll  find  a  hundred  men  asking  for  a  job  that 
went  begging  six  months  ago.  And  who's  to  blame? 
Stoddard! 

ZSUPNIK  [starts  forward].  That's  big  lie!  Stod 
dard  he  fine  fella.  He  my  friend! 

POLINSKI  [reaches  forward  and  yanks  ZSUPNIK'S 
coat  tail,  bringing  him  abruptly  back  into  his  chair 
Shod  op  your  mout',  fool! 

ZSUPNIK  [angrily].     Who  is  fool? 

McCLURE.     Now  wait  a  minute.     Quarrelling 
won't  get  you  anywhere.     You've  been  in  thi 
country  too  long.     Don't  act  like  a  lot  of  Hunkies 
If  we  don't  settle  this  thing  you'll  all  be  back  in 


$1200  A  YEAR  139 

the  old  country,  working  in  the  fields  for  a  handful 
of  corn  at  night. 

ZSUPNIK  [startled].     Why? 

KRAJIIK.     What  you  mean? 

POLINSKI.     Why? 

McCLURE.  Because  Stoddard's  bringing  his 
crowd  down  here  to  get  you  out.  They're  coming 
from  all  over  the  country.  They're  leaving  the 
schools  and  the  offices.  In  another  six  months 
where'll  you  be?  Digging  ditches  at  three  dollars 
a  day.  No,  worse  than  that.  You'll  be  going 
back  to  Bohemia  in  the  steerage.  And  who'll 
be  to  blame?  Stoddard. 

ZSUPNIK  [protests  again,  but  rather  feebly  this 
time].  Stoddard  he  workman's  friend. 

POLINSKI  [on  one  side].     Shut  up,  Zsupnik. 

KRAJIIK  [on  other  side].  Crazy  fool.  [ZSUPNIK 
subsides.] 

McCLURE.  I've  been  a  mill  hand  myself, 
haven't  I? 

ZSUPNIK.     Stoddard  he  mill  hand,  too. 

McCLURE.  He's  no  puddler.  He's  play-acting. 
He'll  write  you  all  up  in  a  book  when  he  gets 
through.  I  tell  you  if  wages  go  down — and  they 
will  go  down — it  isn't  the  boss  you'll  have  to  blame 
for  it,  but  Stoddard.  Let  him  go  on  talking  for 
another  three  months  and  you'll  be  selling  your 
automobiles  and  victrolas,  yes,  and  your  fine  clothes, 


140  $1200  A  YEAR 

too.  You'll  be  glad  of  a  pipeful  of  tobacco  and  a 
meal.  If  you  don't  believe  what  I'm  telling  you 
wait  and  see  for  yourselves.  But  don't  come  to 
me  for  help  when  it's  too  late. 

POLINSKI.     Wage  come  down  we  strike. 

McCmRE.  A  lot  of  good  that'll  do  you.  By 
that  time  there'll  be  plenty  of  new  men  able  to 
handle  the  mill  jobs  and  glad  of  the  chance.  The 
town's  running  over  with  them.  [There  is  a  mo 
ment9  s  silence  on  the  part  of  the  stunned  three.] 
Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it? 

KRAJIIK  [doubles  his  great  hand  into  a  fist}.  We 
fix  him  he  don't  speaking  so  easy. 

POLINSKI.     We  fix. 

ZSUPNIK  [in  a  last  surge  of  loyalty  toward  STOD- 
DARD].  I'm  saying  Stoddard  he  fine  fella.  He 
live  downstairs  by  me.  All  time  make,  "Zsupnik, 
hello,  old  scout!"  He  got  brains  in  head.  He 
know  what  is  good  for  mens.  Stoddard  smart  like 
anyt'ing.  You  beating  up  my  friend  I  make  holler 
I  betcha. 

POLINSKI.  Scab!  [KRAJIIK  comes  over  to 
ZSUPNIK  and  doubles  a  huge  and  threatening  fist 
under  his  nose.] 

McCLURE.  That's  all  right,  Zsupnik.  He's 
fooled  you.  I'm  not  blaming  you.  He's  fooled 
smarter  men  than  you.  And  now  listen,  boys. 
I'm  not  a  man  for  violence.  I'm  all  for  peace. 


A  YEAR  141 

But  I  haven't  worked  all  these  years  to  have  a 
young  whipper-snapper  professor  come  along  and 
tell  me  how  to  run  my  mills  and  the  university 
I  built.  He's  got  a  fine  college  to  teach  in.  I'm 
going  to  give  him  one  more  chance,  mind,  to  go 
back  to  it  peacefully.  After  that  don't  blame  me 
for  what  happens.  I've  done  my  best  to  warn 
you.  And  now  good-night.  [KRAJIIK  and  PO 
LINSKI  to  door,  spiritlessly,  their  manner  having  lost 
all  the  jauntiness  and  assurance  of  their  entrance. 
They  reach  the  door.  ZSUPNIK  seems  to  hesitate, 
as  though  he  would  like  a  chance  to  talk  with  Mo 
CLURE  in  silence.] 

POLINSKI  [to  ZSUPNIK].  Come  on.  What  the 
matter  with  you?  [ZSUPNIK  still  stands,  fumbling 
with  his  hat,  his  good-natured  face  showing  his 
distress.  STEVEN  enters  suddenly.  In  his  hand 
is  a  newspaper  with  a  scare  head.] 

STEVEN.  Father,  there's  an  extra.  The  uni 
versity's  closed,  finished,  shut.  The  entire  faculty 
is  out. 

McCLURE  [to  the  workmen].  There.  You  see! 
Look  out  for  your  jobs  now. 

POLINSKI.  We  fix.  [POLINSKI  and  KRAJIIK 
go.  ZSUPNIK,  crestfallen  and  troubled,  follows  slowly.] 

STEVEN  [with  an  effort].  Good-night,  father. 
[Goes.] 

McCLURE        [absent-mindedly].        Good-night, 


142  $1200  A  YEAR 

good-night.  [Yawns;  rummages  in  table  drawer; 
takes  out  his  bed-time  detective  story.  Starts  to  turn 
out  lamp  on  table.  STEVEN  reenters.] 

STEVEN.  Father,  I  want  you  to  know  that  I 
listened  at  the  door.  I  heard  every  word  you 
said. 

McCLURE.  You  don't  tell  me  now!  H'm. 
That's  what  a  fella  did  in  this  detective  story  I'm 
reading.  And  he  came  to  a  bad  end,  Steve.  He 
came  to  a  very  bad  end.  [Turns  out  the  light.} 

SCENE   CURTAIN 


SCENE  II 

SCENE:  Same  as  Act  II.  The  time  is  Sunday 
morning  following  the  preceding  night.  About 
ten  o'clock. 

When  the  curtain  rises  MRS.  STODDARD  is 
seated  in  a  deep  chair  and  is  almost  completely 
engulfed  in  the  billows  of  the  Sunday  morning 
papers.  They  are  piled  all  about  her,  the  pages 
in  wild  confusion.  She  is  reading  one  sheet, 
absorbedly.  Throws  it  down,  with  a  little  exclama 
tion  of  distress,  picks  up  another,  reads  that. 

The  doorbell  rings.  MARTHA  enters  from 
dining  room,  goes  to  door,  and  admits  STEVEN. 
As  she  goes  she  casts  a  meaning  glance  at  MRS. 
STODDARD  in  her  sea  of  papers. 

STEVEN  MC€LURE  enters  with  a  rush,  his 
air  one  of  excitement.  MARTHA  is  directly  behind 
him. 

STEVEN.    Are  they  up? 
MARTHA.     This  long  time.     Will  yuh  be  havin' 

a  cup  of  coffee  wit'  the  Perfesser? 

STEVEN  [emphatically].    Coffee!    No!    [MARTHA 

exits  left.} 

143 


144  $1200  A  YEAR 

JEAN.    Steve!    Up  so  early  on  Sunday! 

STEVEN.  Up!  I've  scarcely  been  to  bed.  I 
came  here  as  early  as  I  could. 

JEAN.     Why  not?     What  has  happened? 

STEVEN.  Everything.  There's  the  devil  to  pay 
at  our  house. 

JEAN.  Why?  You  mean  because  the  univer 
sity's  closed?  Your  father's  furious,  of  course. 

STEVEN.  Oh,  no,  it  isn't  that.  It's — Mrs. 
Stoddard,  I  think  you  ought  to  know  that  Pro 
fessor  Stoddard's  in  danger  down  here. 

JEAN.     Danger? 

STEVEN.  You  see,  after  that  meeting  last 

night Oh,  why  didn't  you  go,  Mrs.  Stoddard? 

It  was  a  whirlwind!  He  swept  that  crowd — 

JEAN.  Yes,  I  know.  But  the  danger.  Why  is 
he  in  danger? 

STEVEN.  As  soon  as  the  meeting  was  over  the 
committee  came  up  to  see  father. 

JEAN.  And  of  course  they  said  they  wouldn't 
stand  for  a  wage  decrease. 

STEVEN.  Of  course.  But  the  worse  of  it  is 
that  father — I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you  this, 
Mrs.  Stoddard — but  father  convinced  them  that 
it  was  Paul  who's  to  blame  for  it  all. 

JEAN  [placidly].     Oh,  did  he! 

STEVEN.  But  you  don't  understand!  You 
don't  know  what  it  means ! 


A  YEAR  145 

JEAN  [remembers].  Oh,  yes.  Now  that  the 
university's  closed  I  don't  know  what 

STEVEN.  It  isn't  that.  The  men  are  going 
to  make  him  get  out.  Old  Zsupnik  took  his  part, 
but  they  talked  him  down.  They  think  Paul's 
to  blame  for  all  this  wage  trouble.  They  think 
their  job's  gone  because  of  him.  And  if  he  doesn't 
quit — well,  I  don't  want  to  frighten  you,  but  I'm 
afraid  of  what  they'll  do  to  him. 

JEAN.  You  mean  they'd — but  they  wouldn't 
dare!  The  law— 

STEVEN.  There  are  laws  down  here  on  the 
Flats  that  the  Hill  doesn't  know  about.  Things 
just  happen  down  here,  and  nobody  can  prove 
how  they  happened.  They  think  their  job's  in 
danger,  and  that  Paul  has  tricked  them.  Almost 
anything  might  happen  to  him. 

JEAN  [terrified].  But  that  wasn't — your  father 
said  he  would  only 

STEVEN.    When  did  he  say — what? 

JEAN.    Nothing. 

STEVEN.  There's  nothing  he  didn't  say  last 
night.  He  disposed  of  me  before  the  men  came. 

JEAN.    Tony? 

STEVEN.    Yes. 

JEAN.  Oh,  but  Steven,  you  mustn't  quarrel 
with  your  father  because  of  her. 

STEVEN.     I   have   already.     I'm   going   to   be 


146  $1200  A  YEAR 

disinherited  like  the  hero  in  a  melodrama.  He  was 
at  it  again  early  this  morning.  The  more  he 
talked  the  angrier  he  got.  And  the  angrier  he  got 
the  Scotcher  he  got.  He  does,  you  know.  At 
breakfast  his  R's  sounded  like  the  snare  drum 
in  a  fit.  I  left. 

JEAN.  Paul's  just  at  breakfast.  After  he  came 
home  last  night  he  went  straight  to  his  study.  I 
think  it  was  morning  before  he  stopped  work. 

STEVEN.  I  want  to  talk  to  him.  [ZSUPNIK 
enters  from  outer  hall.  He  is  in  Sunday  slippers, 
very  flappy;  a  stubby  pipe  in  his  mouth,  his  hat  on 
the  back  of  his  head.  STEVEN  sees  him,  comes  back.] 

ZSUPNIK.     Perfesser,  he's  up,  no? 

JEAN.  Good  morning.  Yes,  he's  up.  He's 
at  breakfast. 

STEVEN.     How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Zsupnik. 

ZSUPNIK.  You  tell  Perfesser  already  about 
meeting,  huh? 

STEVEN.     I  haven't  seen  him  yet. 

ZSUPNIK  [toward  dining  room].  I  tell  him  how 
boss  say. 

[Enter  STODDARD  from  dining  room,  Sunday 
paper  in  hand,  pipe  in  his  mouth.] 

STODDARD.  Thought  I  heard  your  growl, 
Zsupnik.  Hello,  Steve!  You  are  a  pair  of  early 
birds.  Well,  here's  the  worm.  Which  one  first? 
[ZSUPNIK  and  STEVEN  both  start  to  say  something, 


$1200  A  YEAR  147 

think  better  of  it,  are  silent  again.]  H'm.  Was 
it  as  bad  as  that? 

ZSUPNIK.  Better  I  tell  you  somewhere  else. 
[Looks  significantly  at  STEVEN.] 

STEVEN.  Oh,  if  you  mean  me!  Don't  mind 
me. 

ZSUPNIK.  Old  McClure  he  sure  some  tough 
baby! 

STODDARD  [a  little  impatiently].  But  what  did 
he  say? 

ZSUPNIK.  We  talk.  And  McClure  he — talk. 
[Stops.] 

STODDARD.     Yes,  but  what  about?     What 

ZSUPNIK.  He  say  you  got  get  out  from  mill 
pretty  quick. 

STODDARD.     Not  likely. 

ZSUPNIK.  He  say  you  make  big  trouble.  He 
say  you  make  wage  coming  down.  He  say  how 
you  giving  mill  hand  two  times  cross. 

STODDARD.     What? 

ZSUPNIK.  Two  times  cross.  You  know.  Is 
slang. 

STEVEN.     Maybe  he  means  the  double  cross. 

ZSUPNIK.     Sure,  sure! 

STODDARD.  We  know  better  than  that,  though, 
don't  we,  Zsupnik? 

ZSUPNIK  [somewhat  doubtfully].  M-m-m  is  maybe. 

STODDARD.     What  do  you  mean — maybe?  Why, 


148  91200  A  YEAR 

you  know  where  I  stand,  Zsupnik!  Nobody 
knows  better  than  you.  Haven't  I  always  been 
there  when  they  needed  me? 

ZSUPNIK.  Sure,  you  damn  fine  feller,  Stoddard. 
Me,  I  like  you  good,  only 

STODDARD.     Only  what? 

ZSUPNIK.  Last  night  T  say  "Stoddard  my 
friend.  Stoddard  good  feller."  And  Krajiik  and 
Polinski  they  say  "Zsupnik,  shut  up  your  mouth! 
What  you  talk!  Fool!" 

STODDARD.  You  took  my  part,  h'm?  And 
the  others  didn't  like  it?  And  McClure?  [To 
STEVE.]  I've  got  to  get  this  straight,  Steve.  I'm 
sorry.  Perhaps  you  won't  like  it. 

STEVEN.  Like  it!  You  won't  like  it  either, 
when  you  know. 

JEAN.  Oh,  Paul,  they're  against  you,  all  of 
them,  I'm  afraid. 

STODDARD.  Wait.  Let's  hear  what  Zsupnik 
has  to  say.  You  stood  by  me — good  old  Chris! 
And  McClure? 

ZSUPNIK.  Old  McClure  he  smart  like  any 
thing.  He  say  you  got  too  much  fine  brains  for 
mill  hand.  Old  McClure  he  know.  He  is  work 
by  mill  many  year  back. 

STODDARD.     But  so  do  1. 

ZSUPNIK  [slyly] .  Perfessers  is  different.  Pretty 
quick  you  put  hi  book  how  is  work  in  mill,  huh? 


$1200  A  YEAR  149 

STODDARD.  I  tell  you,  Zsupnik,  I  work  in  the 
mill  to  earn  a  living. 

ZSUPNIK.  Perfesser  from  colleges  earn  plenty 
money,  live  in  big  house  on  Hill,  wear  all  time  fine 
black  pants  like  Sunday. 

JEAN.     You  see,  dear? 

STODDARD  [as  though  dazed].     Good  God! 

STEVEN  [to  ZSUPNIK].  Can't  you  understand 
that  Professor  Stoddard  left  the  college  for  a 
principle? 

ZSUPNIK.  I  don't  know  nothing  only  how  my  old 
woman  she  is  mad  something  terrible  when  I  come 
home  this  morning.  She  jaw  fierce.  [With  a 
gesture  toward  ceiling.]  She  jaw  till  I  come  down 
stairs.  "What  you  want?"  she  yell.  "What  the 
matter  you  all  time  holler  more  money,  no  work, 
more  money,  no  work." 

STODDARD.     Why  didn't  you  explain  to  her? 

ZSUPNIK.  Explain  ain't  nothing  by  my  woman. 
She  say:  "You  got  it  good.  When  you  get 
five-hour  day  you  ain't  sit  around  my  kitchen 
in  stocking  feet  you  betcha.  Me  t'row  you 
out." 

STODDARD.  And  that's  why  you  and  the  others 
have  turned  against  me?  Because  McClure  says 
I'm  a  trouble-maker.  Who  got  you  your  eight- 
hour  day?  Who  got  you  your  time-and-a-half 
overtime?  Who 


150  $1200  A  YEAR 

ZSUPNIK.  Sure,  sure.  I  say  all  this.  Make  no 
difference.  Boss  is  mad.  Terrible. 

STEVEN.  You  see,  he  didn't  have  a  chance  with 
father  from  the  first,  because  of  Tony. 

STODDARD.  Tony?  What's  Tony  got  to  do 
with  me? 

STEVEN.  He  blames  you  for  bringing  Tony  and 
me  together. 

STODDARD.  But  I  never  saw  the  girl  until  I 
came  down  here  to  live. 

STEVEN  [interrupting].     Yes.     Tony  and  I 

ZSUPNIK  [who  is  not  at  all  certain  of  the  conversa 
tion  but  doesn't  like  the  sound  of  things.  Interrupts 
in  turn].  Tony!  Tony!  Well,  what  the  matter 
my  Tony,  huh?  She  fine  girl. 

STODDARD.     Of  course  she  is,  Zsupnik. 

STEVEN.  Tony's  an  exquisite  orchid — a  white 
orchid  springing  from  the  miasmatic  jungle  of 
the  Flats. 

ZSUPNIK  [complacently].     Sure. 

STODDARD  [amused].  Well,  of  course,  Steve,  if 
that's  the  sort  of  thing  you've  been  saying  to 
your  father. 

JEAN  [nervously].  Steven,  you  dear  foolish  boy. 
We  know  you  don't  mean  it,  but  your  father  can't 
be  expected  to  understand  about  white  orchids, 
and — ah — what  kind  of  jungle  was  that? 

STEVEN  [stares  at  her  a  moment,  Ms  face  very 
»  * 


91200  A   YEAR  151 

serious.  Then  he  turns  to  ZSUPNIK  with  a  long 
breath  of  resolve].  Mr.  Zsupnik,  there  is  something 
I've  wanted  to  say  to  you.  Something  I've  wanted 
to  say  for  a  long  time. 

JEAN  [now  really  alarmed].  Steven!  Don't! 
Paul! 

STEVEN  [rather  nervous,  but  takes  a  fresh  start]. 
For  a  long  time 

STODDARD  [sensing  from  JEAN'S  face  that  the 
situation  is  really  serious].  Some  other  time, 
Steve,  if  you  don't  mind.  I've  an  appointment  at 
twelve  and  I  want  to  talk  to  Zsupnik. 

STEVEN.  No!  Mr.  Zsupnik,  for  a  long  time 
there  is  something  I've  wanted  to  say  to  you.  I 
want  to  say — I — well — I — Tony 

ZSUPNIK.  All  right.  Tony— Tony?  What 
about  my  Tony? 

STEVEN  [blurting  it].  I — I  love  your  daughter 
and  I  want  to  marry  her.  [JEAN  turns  away  with 
a  little  hopeless  gesture.] 

STODDARD.  He's  done  it  now!  The  young 
idiot! 

ZSUPNIK  [somewhat  bewildered].  For  why  you 
tell  me? 

STEVEN.  You're  Tony's  father.  I  want  your 
consent. 

ZSUPNIK.  Sure.  Tony's  pa,  me.  But  my 
Tony  she  boss,  by  damn,  just  like  American  girl. 

* 


152  $1200  A   YEAR 

STEVEN.  Tony's  wonderful!  I  want  to  give 
her  all  that's  beautiful,  and  rare,  and  exquisite. 
When  I  think  of  her  in  the  squalor  of  that 
noisy  flat!  The  coarseness  of  it!  The  cheapness 
of  it! 

ZSUPNIK.  Cheap!  What  you  mean,  cheap! 
We  got  victrola  cost  one  hundred  and  twenty -five 
my  good  money.  We  got  automobile,  wash 
machine,  piano. 

STEVEN  [shudders  slightly}.  I  want  to  take  her 
away  from  just  those  sordid  surroundings.  She 
shall  have  the  beauty,  the  refinement  tfyat  her 
exquisite  nature  craves. 

JEAN  [significantly].  You  forget  that  that  sort 
of  craving  costs  money,  Steven. 

STEVEN.     Money !     What  is  money ! 

STODDARD.  It's  what  you  buy  things  with. 
Don't  forget  that. 

STEVEN.  It  can't  satisfy  the  hunger  of  the 
spirit.  What  can  money  have  to  do  with  this  wild 
flower — this  pale,  tender  blossom  whose  beautiful 
soul  is  starving.  [ToNY  enters  from  hall.  She  is 
eating  a  banana  with  much  relish.  Very  magnificent 
in  Sunday  clothes  and  none  too  pleased  to  see  STEVEN.] 

TONY  [to  STEVEN].  For  God's  sake,  don't  you 
never  stay  home! 

STEVEN  [goes  to  her].  Tony!  How  glad  I  am 
to  see  you! 


$1200  A  YEAR  153 

TONY.  It's  gettin'  so  a  girl  can't  even  have 
her  Sundays  to  herself. 

STODDARD  [relieved  at  Tony's  manner].  We'll 
leave  you  with  your  tender  blossom,  Steve. 
Zsupnik,  we'll  talk  in  here.  [Goes  toward  dining 
room  followed  by  ZSUPNIK.]  Now,  am  I  to  under 
stand  that  when  the  committee  presented  their 

decision  to  McClure [STODDARD  and  ZSUPNIK 

exeunt  dining  room.] 

JEAN.     I  must  hear  this.     [Toward  dining  room.] 

TONY.    What's  worryin'  you,  Mrs.  Stoddard? 

JEAN.     Oh,  ever  so  many  things,  Tony. 

TONY  [good-naturedly].  I  wouldn't  pay  no 
attention  to  those  mill  fights.  Ma  and  me,  when 
they  get  to  yellin'  against  everything,  just  run 
'em  out  the  place. 

JEAN.  I  wish  it  were  as  simple  as  that.  [JEAN 
exits  dining  room.] 

STEVEN.     Tony ! 

TONY  [evidently  not  caring  to  be  left  alone  with 
STEVE].  Well,  I  guess  I'll  be  goin',  too. 

STEVEN.  No,  don't  go.  Where  are  you  going? 
Let  me  go  with  you. 

TONY.  No,  you  don't.  And  if  I'd  known  you 
was  here  I  wouldn't  of  come  down. 

STEVEN  [fatuously].  You  make  me  feel  as  if  you 
weren't  glad  to  see  me,  Tony. 

TONY.     Well,  didn't  I  just  see  you  last  night? 


154  $1200  A  YEAR 

STEVEN.  I  was  watching  you  all  through  the 
meeting,  Tony.  Your  eyes  were  like  stars  as  you 
listened  to  him  talk.  You  were  transfigured! 
No  longer  the  little  mill  girl,  spiritless,  crushed! 

TONY.     That'll  be  about  all  of  that. 

STEVEN.    Of  what? 

TONY.  You  got  to  quit  callin'  me  names, 
that's  what! 

STEVEN.  Names!  I'm  not  calling  you  names, 
Tony! 

TONY.  Well,  whatever  they  are  I  don't  like  it, 
see?  What  is  it  if  it  ain't  names  I'd  like  to  know! 

STEVEN.  It's  just  that  I  care  for  you  so  much. 
I  can't  bear  to  see  you  unhappy. 

TONY.  Me  unhappy!  I  ain't  unhappy.  I 
got  all  I  want.  Look  at  these  [points  to  her  high- 
topped  coloured  kid  boots].  Eleven -fifty.  Say, 
even  you  can  reco'nize  a  hat  that's  got  class. 
[Touches  that  triumph  of  apparel  with  an  air  of  assur 
ance.]  You  ought  to  hear  my  ma  talk  about  when 
she  was  a  girl.  You'd  a  had  a  swell  time  moanin' 
over  her,  you  would. 

STEVEN.  Tony,  you're  cross  at  something  I've 
said  or  done.  Tell  me  the  truth. 

TONY.  All  right.  I'm  sick  of  you  and  your 
speeches,  that's  the  truth.  Always  a-goin'  on. 
Other  fellas  don't  talk  to  me  like  that.  I'd  like 
to  see  'em  try.  At  first  I  thought  it  was  fun, 


$1200  A  YEAR  155 

bavin'  you  stuck  on  me — Old  McClure's  son  an' 
everything.  An'  the  other  girls  in  the  shop  et 
up  with  jealousy  and  talkin',  and  starin'  at  me  in 
the  wash  room.  But  a  lot  you  care  about  me. 

STEVEN.    But  I  do,  Tony,  I  do. 

TONY.  You  do  not.  Say,  I  know.  When  a 
fella's  stuck  on  a  girl  he  don't  go  on  about  her  bein' 
no  poor  little  mutt  from  the  mills — no,  sir!  He 
tells  her  she's  a  baby  doll  and  things  like  that. 

STEVEN  [feebly].    But,  Tony! 

TONY.  Tell  you  what  I'm  like  to  you.  I'm 
like  one  of  them  bugs  you  was  tellin'  me  about 
you  put  under  a  glass  or  somethin'  at  college  and 
watch  it  wiggle,  see?  [Here  STEVEN  again  attempts 
to  interrupt  but  TONY  goes  on.  Her  hands  on  her 
hips,  belligerently,  she  faces  him.]  How  many 
times  have  you  took  me  to  the  movies? 

STEVEN  [helplessly].     Taken. 

TONY.    Took! 

STEVEN.     I  hate  the  movies. 

TONY.  Well,  I  don't.  An'  when  a  fella's 
keepin'  comp'ny  with  a  girl  it's  what  she  likes  that 
goes.  You  ought  to  run  to  the  movies,  oncet  in  a 
while  [disdainfully].  You  could  learn  something 
off  'n  them,  you  bet.  About  the  way  to  make  love. 

STEVEN.  Don't  drag  the  tawdry  make-believe 
of  the  movies  into  our  wonderful  feeling  for  each 
other,  Tony. 


156  $1200  A  YEAR 

TONY  [with  a  deep  breath}.  Now  listen  to  me, 
Steve.  You're  a  good  kid  an'  I  like  you.  You 
never  took  me  to  the  movies,  or  bought  me  ice 
cream,  or  went  to  the  dances  the  way  the  other 
fellas  done,  but  I  ain't  holdin'  that  up  against  you. 
You  didn't  know  no  better.  I'm  just  tellin'  you, 
straight,  you  an'  me,  we're  diff'rent. 

STEVEN.     How  different? 

TONY.  When  I'm  with  the  boys  in  my  own 
crowd,  why,  I  feel  comfortable.  Fellas  like  Otto. 

STEVEN.    Who's  Otto? 

TONY  [confused].  Well,  I'm  just  takin'  him  for 
example.  I  talk  like  him  an'  he  talks  like  me,  I 
mean.  Half  the  time,  when  I'm  with  you,  I  don't 
know  what  you're  drivin'  at.  Well,  say,  no  girl's 
goin'  to  enjoy  a  line  of  talk  when  she  don't  know 
whether  the  answer  is  "No,  it  ain't"  or,  "Yes,  it  is". 
I  can't  be  usin'  my  mind  all  the  time  like  that 
just  for  talkin'. 

STEVEN.  But  I  want  you  to  be  just  yourself 
with  me.  It's  just  because  you  are  what  you  are 
that  I'm  mad  about  you.  You're  so  natural.  So 
refreshing.  I  don't  want  you  to  try  to  be  anything 
that  you  aren't. 

TONY  [desperately].    Yeh,  but  I  am! 

STEVEN.     Am!    I  should  say — are! 

TONY.  I  mean  I  ain't.  Look.  This  is  what  I 
mean.  You're  always  callin*  me  a  crushed  flower, 


$1200  A  YEAR  157 

an'  like  that.  At  first  I  didn't  mind.  I  thought 
maybe  fellas  like  you  went  on  like  that,  just  talkin'. 
But  say,  I  begun  to  see  you  meant  it. 

STEVEN.     Of  course  I  meant  it. 

TONY.  There!  That's  what  I  mean  when  I 
tell  you  I  ain't.  Me  crushed!  Why,  say,  there 
ain't  a  girl  in  the  Flats  has  a  better  time  than  I 
have.  I  got  more  fellas  than  any  one  in  the  works. 
I  could  go  every  night  in  the  week,  if  I  wanted  to, 
an'  all  day  Sunday.  Yes,  an'  with  a  different 
one  every  time.  Why,  only  last  Saturday  night 
at  the  dance  at  Kreiger's,  Otto  an'  Gus  they  had  a 
regular  fight  right  on  the  floor  because  Gus  he  says 
I  promised  I'd  dance  with  him,  an'  Otto,  he  says 
no,  I 

STEVEN  [overcome].  Oh,  how  dreadful.  My  poor 
child! 

TONY  [with  relish].  Poor  nothin'!  I  liked  it. 
The  other  girls  was  wild. 

STEVEN.  Tony,  dear,  don't  you  see  that  that's 
just  what  I  mean  when  I  say  you're  being  crushed 
— dragged  into  the  mire.  Two  men  in  a  vulgar 
brawl  over  you! 

TONY.  It  was  grand.  Otto  give  him  a  bloody 
nose. 

STEVEN.  Tony,  I  can't  bear  to  hear  you  talk 
like  that. 

TONY.    Well,  that's  the  way  I  talk. 


158  $1200  A  YEAR 

STEVEN.     But  you'll  change.     You'll  learn. 

TONY.  I  won't  never  be  different.  What's 
more,  I  don't  want  to  be.  I'm  myself  an'  you're 
you.  Now  that  girl — she  talks  like  you.  Why 
don't  you  get  stuck  on  her  an'  leave  me  alone,  h'm? 

STEVEN.     What  girl? 

TONY.  Her — you  know — with  the  interesting 
point  of  view.  That  was  here  yesterday. 

STEVEN.     Miss  Winthrop? 

TONY.  Winthrop — that's  her.  Well,  she's  your 
class.  Her  and  you  would  get  along  something 
swell.  I  bet  she  never  was  inside  a  movie  in  her 
life. 

STEVEN.  Miss  Winthrop  is  not  interested  in 
me.  [It  is  plain,  though,  that  the  idea  rather  appeals 
to  him.] 

TONY.  Try  her.  But  let  me  tell  you  one  thing 
before  I  go. 

STEVEN.     Where  are  you  going? 

TONY.  You  might  as  well  know  it.  I  got  a  date 
with  Otto. 

STEVEN.  But,  Tony,  dear!  I've  told  the  whole 
world  I'm  going  to  marry  you. 

TONY.  Well,  I'll  tell  the  world  you  ain't. 
[STEVE  sits  disconsolate.  TONY,  her  whole  attitude 
one  of  friendly  sympathy  and  good  nature,  comes  over 
to  him.]  I'm  goin'  to  tell  you  something  for  your 
own  good,  Stevie,  because  I  like  you. 


$1200  A  YEAR  159 

STEVEN  [hopefully].     Do  you,  Tony? 

TONY.  Sure.  You  ain't  a  bad  kid,  if  you  are 
a  nut.  Listen  [impressively].  Girls  is  all  alike. 
If  you  want  to  make  a  hit  with  this  Winthrop 
friend  of  yours,  don't  go  callin'  her  no  poor  little 
crushed  flower,  see  ?  An'  no  downtrodden  daughter 
of  a  Perfessor.  Because  she  ain't  good-natured 
like  I  am.  She's  li'ble  to  get  her  Boston  up. 
Blow  her  to  the  movies  oncet  in  a  while.  [Goes 
toward  door.  Turns.]  An'  for  God's  sake  put  a 
little  jazz  into  your  love-makin'!  Good-bye, 
Steve.  [ToNY  goes.  STEVEN,  who  has  started  after 
her,  bewildered,  now  stands  as  she  left  him.  He  sinks 
into  a  chair,  disconsolate.  MRS.  STODDARD  enters. 
Goes  over  to  STEVEN.  Her  hand  on  his  shoulder.] 

STEVEN.     She's  gone. 

JEAN.     Gone? 

STEVEN.  To  meet  Otto.  Tony — Tony  never 
really  cared  for  me,  Mrs.  Stoddard. 

JEAN  [patting  his  arm  a  little].  And  you  never 
really  cared  for  Tony. 

STEVEN.  But  I  did!  I  did!  That  is  I— I 
think  I  did. 

JEAN.  Come  with  me  while  I  talk  to  Martha. 
She's  terribly  cross  this  morning.  As  if  there 
weren't  enough  things  to  bother  me. 

STEVEN  [absently].     Yes,  of  course,  of  course. 

JEAN.     Every  time  the  doorbell  rings  she  says 


160  $1200  A  YEAR 

"Another  of  them  Cheeso-Slavicks"  and  refuses  to 
budge.  [JEAN  and  STEVEN  go.  The  doorbell  rings. 
STODDARD  enters  from  dining  room  followed  closely 
by  ZSUPNIK.  STODDARD  goes  to  answer  front  door, 
talking  as  he  goes} 

STODDARD.  He  has  fooled  you  before,  I  tell 
you.  And  he'll  do  it  again. 

ZSUPNIK  [takes  off  his  hat  to  run  a  rather  bewil 
dered  hand  through  his  hair  and  over  his  head.  He 
is  plainly  distressed].  He  talk  pretty  straight  for 
crooked  fella.  [STODDARD  to  door.  WINTHROP 
and  FRANCES  enter.] 

STODDARD.     Hello! 

WINTHROP  [dramatically].  Paul,  the  walls  of 
Troy  are  tottering! 

STODDARD.     You  don't  say. 

FRANCES.    Paul — please!    This  isn't  funny. 

STODDARD.    No? 

WINTHROP  [in  same  portentous  vein].  My  eyes 
are  opened.  Paul,  my  boy,  I  never  dreamed  that 
such  things  were  possible. 

STODDARD  [a  little  impatient  by  now].  What 
things?  Good  Lord!  What  things? 

FRANCES.     Father,  do  let  me— 

WINTHROP.  At  first  I  could  hardly  believe  my 
ears.  But  Professor  Putnam  has  it  all  at  his 
fingers'  ends.  A  remarkable  man,  Professor  Put 
nam.  A  man  of  erudition — and  of  force.  Don't 


$1200  A  YEAR  161 

doubt  that.  Force!  The  things  he  told  us — 
revealed  to  us — at  the  meeting  amazed  me.  Nay, 
shocked  me. 

STODDARD.  Do  you  mean  it  was  Putnam — 
little  Putnam — who  had  the  courage? 

FRANCES.     Plus  Emily  Putnam. 

STODDARD.     What  did  she  have  to  do  with  it? 

WINTHROP.  Everything!  Everything!  If 
it  hadn't  been  for  Jean's  dress  Dinsmore  Univers 
ity  would  not  fail  to  open  its  doors  Monday 
morning.  Closed!  For  the  first  time  in  sixty 
years! 

STODDARD.  Now  look  here,  Henry,  Frances, 
what  is  this?  Jean's  dress  and  Emily  Putnam 

and [Suddenly  he  stops  and  an  inkling  of  the 

truth  begins  to  come  to  him.]  By  Jove! 

WINTHROP.  Certainly.  "Cherchez  la  femme." 
[ToZsuPNiK.]  Always. 

ZSUPNIK  [uncomprehending,  but  agreeable].  I 
betcha. 

FRANCES.  Mrs.  Putnam  told  me  last  night 
that  after  she  met  Jean  on  the  street  yesterday 
something  inside  her  just  seemed  to  break.  She 
came  home  with  the  picture  of  Jean  in  her  mind — 
Jean  after  the  concert,  radiant,  and  well  dressed, 
and  carefree.  An  hour  later  her  husband  came 
in  after  having  talked  to  you.  She  walked  into  his 
little  cubby-hole  of  a  study,  stood  in  front  of  his 


162  $1^00  A   YEAR 

desk  and  said,  "Augustus  Putnam,  if  knowledge 
is  power,  prove  it!" 

WINTHROP.  In  half  an  hour  Putnam  had  tele 
phoned  every  one  of  us  and  called  a  meeting  for 
eight-thirty  sharp.  Putnam  repeated  what  you'd 
said  to  him,  word  for  word.  There  wasn't  much 
demonstration. 

FRANCES.  I  think  they  all  had  their  minds 
made  up  weeks  before  this.  It  just  needed  the 
spark.  And  Emily  Putnam  provided  that. 

STODDARD.  Gad,  this  is  glorious!  If  they'll 
only  stand  by  it. 

WINTHROP.  Oh,  they'll  stand  by  it.  Not  one 
of  them  who  hasn't  a  chance  at  a  position  with  an 
astonishing — ah — honorarium  attached.  Astonish 
ing  !  Thousands ! 

FRANCES.     All  except  poor  dear  father. 

WINTHROP  [he  makes  a  rather  pathetic  figure 
as  he  stands  there}.  All  except  me. 

FRANCES.  From  our  house  to  yours  this  morn 
ing  father  considered  every  known  trade,  pro 
fession,  and  occupation  from  travelling  salesman 
to  vaudeville. 

WINTHROP.  If  I  were  a  young  man — but  what 
can  I  do?  I've  been  a  teacher  for  twenty-five 
years.  It's  my  life.  I  love  it.  I  can't  give  up 
teaching. 

STODDARD.     I  loved  it,  too,  Henry. 


$1200  A  YEAR  163 

WINTHROP.     Well,  now  what? 

STODDARD.  You'll  fall  into  step  with  the  rest 
of  us. 

WINTHROP.  No.  You're  moving  too  fast  for 
me — you  young  fellows.  What's  come  over  the 
world?  What's  come  over  the  world? 

FRANCES.  We'll  get  on,  father,  somehow. 
[To  STODDARD.]  Where's  Jean?  I  must  tell  her. 

STODDARD.     In  my  study  with  Steven. 

FRANCES.  With  Steven!  Oh.  [FRANCES  exits 
dining  room.] 

WINTHROP.  Ah,  well,  a  knowledge  of  the  Greek 
poets  is  poor  equipment  for  modern  commercial 
life.  Paul,  my  boy,  Anacreon  is  an  anachronism. 
Ha!  Not  bad,  that.  [Laughs  at  his  own  joke,  in 
which  he  is  joined  by  STODDARD,  and,  a  little  tardily, 
by  ZSUPNIK  who  naturally  does  not  in  the  least  under 
stand  but  is  good-naturedly  willing  to  share  the  mirth. 
MRS.  ZSUPNIK,  in  working  dress  and  apron,  her 
sleeves  rolled  high,  appears  suddenly  in  doorway, 
wrath  on  her  face.  ZSUPNIK,  in  the  midst  of  a  hearty 
laugh,  suddenly  sobers  and  cringes  as  he  sees  her.] 

MRS.  ZSUPNIK  [briefly,  to  the  others].  'Scuse. 
[Comes  down  to  her  husband.]  Zsupnik,  why  you 
don't  come  turn  ice  cream  freezer?  Big  bum. 
[Grasps  ZSUPNIK'S  arm  and  propels  him  rapidly  out 
of  the  room.]  What  you  think  you  stand  here  talk, 
talk,  talk!  Me  got  plenty  work  Sunday  just  like 


164  $1200  A  YEAR 

other  day.  Big  loafer!  [Turns  at  door,  her  hold 
still  firm  on  ZSUPNIK'S  arm,  pauses  briefly  in  her 
tirade,  while  her  husband  stands  limp.]  'Scuse. 
[  To  STODDARD  and  WINTHROP.  Exits  with  ZSUPNIK 
immediately  resuming  her  scolding.} 

WINTHROP.  Dear  me!  What  a  firm  sort  of 
person. 

STODDARD.  She  has  to  be,  with  Chris.  [Be 
comes  suddenly  very  serious.}  Henry,  things  have 
come  to  a  head.  McClure  has  told  the  men  at  the 
mill  that  I'm  working  against  them.  I've  learned 
those  men  in  the  last  few  months.  And  I  know 
they  don't  think.  They  act.  If  they're  con 
vinced  I'm  their  enemy  I'll  have  to  do  some  quick 
acting,  myself.  Good  old  slow-witted  Zsupnik's 
my  friend,  and  yet  I  could  see  that  McClure  had 
him  pretty  thoroughly  poisoned.  From  what  I 
could  get  out  of  Zsupnik's  version  of  it  McClure's 
going  to  give  me  what  he  calls  a  chance  to  get  out. 
Well,  I  won't  do  it. 

WINTHROP.     And  if  you  don't  what  will  happen? 

STODDARD.  I  can't  believe  they'd  actually  try 
force.  And  almost  everything  else  that  could 
happen  has  happened.  [Enter  MARTHA /rom  dining 
room.] 

MARTHA  [very  determined].  Fd  like  a  word  with 
you,  Perfesser. 

STODDARD.    Not  now,  Martha.     Fm  busy. 


$1200  A  YEAR  165 

MARTHA.     I'm  leavin'. 

STODDARD  .     What ! 

MARTHA.  Leavin'.  Goin*  away  from  these 
here  Flats. 

STODDARD  [to  WINTHROP].  Punishment  for  my 
saying  that  everything  had  happened  that  could 
happen. 

MARTHA  [in  a  burst].  It  ain't  what  I'm  used  to 
that's  worked  fifteen  years  in  the  university  and 
amongst  the  Hill  crowd  an'  how  they  ever  got 
along  without  me  since  I  come  down  here  is  more 
than  I  can  see,  and  it  was  only  last  night  when  I 
was  up  on  the  Hill  and  heard  the  news  of  the  walk 
out  I  says  to  myself  I  says,  Martha  I  says,  now's 
your  time  to  leave  what  you  was  never 

STODDARD.  Now  wait  a  minute,  Martha.  We've 
always  treated  you  well,  surely.  And  you're 
getting  more  money  than  you  could  get  on  the  Hill. 

MARTHA.  If  the  Blakes  an'  the  Putnams  an' 
the  Salsburys  an'  the  rest  is  all  going  out  of  the 
Perfesser  business  like  I  hear  and  startin'  in  to 
work  for  real  wages  an'  not  no  dirty  mill  neither 
but  elegant  positions  then  I  can  go  to  work 
private  for  any  of  them  an'  glad  to  have  me  and 
take  my  choice  an'  mix  like  I'm  used  to  an'  no 
Cheeso-Slovicks  like  them  Zsupniks. 

STODDARD.  You  don't  mean  you're  going  now! 
Have  you  told  Mrs.  Stoddard?  You  know  I'm 


166  $1200  A  YEAR 

speaking  out  of  town  to-night.  She  can't  be 
left  alone. 

MARTHA.  It's  you  that  leaves  her  alone,  poor 
lamb,  an'  her  cryin'  when  she  thinks  nobody's 
noticin',  an'  who'd  blame  her  when  you  think  the 
likes  of  her  down  here  in  this  dump  with  all  the 
smoke  an'  onions  an'  nobody 

JEAN  [off,  in  dining  room].  Oh,  Martha! 
Martha ! 

MARTHA.     Yes'm.     [Exits  dining  room.] 

STODDARD.  This  is  getting  a  little  thick,  isn't 
it?  How  about  a  walk,  Henry?  An  hour's 
sprint  won't  hurt  either  of  us.  I'll  get  my  coat. 
[Goes  toward  bedroom.] 

WINTHROP  [follows  STODDARD].  It  may  clear 
the  cobwebs,  Paul.  I  do  feel  a  little  queer  this 
morning  what  with  one  thing  and  another.  Yes, 
indeed.  [STODDARD  and  WINTHROP  exit  bedroom. 
WINTHROP  rambling  on  in  his  vague  way  as  he  dis 
appears.  STEVE  and  FRANCES  enter  from  MRS. 
STOOD ARD'S  room.  They  are  looking  into  each 
other's  eyes,  quite  absorbed.] 

FRANCES.     Do  you  really  mean  that,  Steven? 

STEVEN.  Do  I?  I  think  you're  some  baby 
doll,  Frances! 

FRANCES  [coyly].  Oh,  Steven.  [They  go  slowly 
toward  hall,  back.] 

STEVEN.     I  don't  know.     You're  different.     A 


$1200  A  YEAR  167 

fellow  can  talk  to  a  girl  like  you.  You  seem  to 
understand.  You're  wonderful! 

FRANCES.  I  never  dreamed  you  felt  like  that 
about  me. 

STEVEN.  I  always  have.  Always.  But  I  was 
afraid  of  you.  I'm  not  now.  I  just  needed  to 
put  a  little — jazz  into  it. 

FRANCES  [pensively].     Girls  are  all  alike. 

STEVEN  [startled  at  hearing  TONY'S  very  words]. 
How  did  you  know  that? 

FRANCES  [very  demure].     I'm  a  girl. 

STEVEN.  Let's  go  and  have  lunch  somewhere. 
Let's  drive  out  to  Ferroni's.  Shall  we?  Will  you? 

FRANCES.     I'd  love  to. 

STEVEN.  Come  on.  [They  pause  at  hall  door] 
Frances,  do  you  like  the  movies? 

FRANCES.     I  adore  them.     Don't  you? 

STEVEN.  Yes.  Yes,  I  like  them.  [As  they  go.] 
Then  to-night,  Frances,  we  could  go  to  the  Rivoli. 

FRANCES  [off,  as  they  vanish].  Oh,  that  would 
be  nice.  [The  doorbell  rings.  MARTHA  enters, 
crosses  to  answer  it.  CYRUS  McCLURE  enters, 
followed  by  MARTHA.  McCLURE  is  looking  back 
as  though  he  has  just  passed  the  utterly  absorbed 
STEVEN  and  FRANCES.] 

MCCLURE  [to  MARTHA].     Who  was  that? 

MARTHA  [peers  back].  That  just  went  out? 
That  was  young  Steve  McClure,  the  old  divil's  son. 


168  $1200  A  YEAR 

McCLURE.     No,  no,  the  girl,  the  girl! 

MARTHA.  Oh,  her!  That  was  Miss  Frances 
Winthrop. 

McCLURE.  Winthrop!  H'm!  [A  little  smile  of 
satisfaction.}  Stoddard  home? 

MARTHA.     Perfesser  Stoddar's  in. 

McCLURE.  All  right.  Tell  Professor  Stoddard 
I  want  to  see  him. 

MARTHA  [goes  to  bedroom  door,  calls].  Oh, 
Perfesser ! 

STODDARD  [off].    Yes! 

MARTHA.  One  of  them  mill  hands  here  to  see 
you.  [MARTHA  crosses  to  door  left  as  STODDARD 
enters  right,  followed  by  WINTHROP.] 

STODDARD.     Mr.  McClure! 

MARTHA.     Oh,  my  God.     [Exits  left.] 

McCLURE  [grimly].     Good  morning. 

STODDARD.     This  is  a  surprise. 

McCLURE.     I  meant  it  to  be. 

STODDARD.  You  know  my  brother-in-law  Pro 
fessor  Winthrop? 

McCLURE.  Yes,  of  course.  Howdy-do. 
Howdy-do. 

WINTHROP.  I'm  well,  thank  you.  I  can't 
complain. 

STODDARD.     Won't  you  sit  down? 

McCLURE.     This  isn't  a  social  call. 

STODDARD.     You  can  be  just  as  unsocial  sitting 


$1200  A  YEAR  169 

down.  Try  that  chair.  It's  got  a  straight 
back. 

McCLURE.  Now  look  here,  Stoddard.  You Ve 
carried  things  far  enough.  I've  reached  the 
limit. 

STODDARD.     Not  quite. 

McCLURE.     What! 

STODDARD.     We've  just  begun. 

McCLURE.  See  here,  Stoddard.  I'm  the  boss 
yet.  I  won't  stand  for  your  meddling,  and  your 
interfering,  and  your  damned  speech-making  any 
longer.  You're  fired. 

STODDARD.  Mr.  McClure  you  didn't  come  down 
here  to  fire  one  of  your  mill  hands. 

McCLURE.  You're  not  a  mill  hand.  You're 
a  college  professor  in  overalls.  And  understand, 
you've  made  all  the  trouble  you're  going  to. 
You're  fired. 

STODDARD.     You  know  better  than  that. 

MCCLURE  [though  he  knows  he  is  beaten  here]. 
Better  than  what? 

STODDARD.  I  belong  to  the  union.  You  know 
you  can't  fire  me  without  the  consent  of  the  shop 
committee. 

McCLURE.  I  do  know  it.  This  is  a  formality. 
I'm  giving  you  a  last  chance,  Stoddard.  The  men 
want  you  out.  I  want  you  out.  They  don't 
usually  deal  so  gently  with  cases  like  yours.  You 


170  $1200  A   YEAR 

and  your  kind  don't  belong  down  here.  Are  you 
going  to  get  out? 

STODDARD.     No.     [JEAN  enters,  left.] 

McCLURE.     Don't  say  I  didn't  warn  you. 

JEAN  [alarmed].  What  is  it?  Paul,  what  is 
Mr.  Clure  warning  you  of? 

McCLURE.  I've  done  what  I  can  for  you,  Mrs. 
Stoddard.  I'll  stop  your  talking,  Stoddard,  if 
I  have  to  close  down  the  mills  to  do  it. 

JEAN.     You  wouldn't  do  that! 

McCLURE.  Why  not?  I  can  live  comfortably 
for  the  rest  of  my  life  on  what  I've  got.  If  I  close 
down  you'll  be  out  and  fifteen  thousand  men  with 
you.  Then  see  how  popular  you'll  be  on  the  lec 
ture  platform,  and  in  the  newspapers. 

WINTHROP.  Paul,  this  looks  very  bad.  Very 
bad. 

McCLURE.  Now,  I'm  an  older  man  than  you, 
Stoddard.  The  men  from  the  mill  will  be  here  to 
talk  to  you.  They  know  what  I've  said  to  you. 
And  they  won't  be  as  patient  as  I've  been.  [The 
doorbell  rings.] 

STODDARD  [it  may  be  the  mill  hands].     I'll  go. 

JEAN.  No,  no!  Let  me!  [Goes  quickly.  They 
turn  to  face  door,  back.  JEAN'S  voice  is  heard,  off, 
as  is  that  of  a  man.  CLEVELAND  WELCH  enters, 
followed  by  JEAN.  WELCH  is  a  slim,  dapper  young 
fellow,  rather  extravagantly  dressed,  with  a  quick  eye 


$1200  A  YEAR  171 

and  a  businesslike  manner.  He  glances  about  the 
room,  knows  STODDARD  promptly,  though  he  has 
never  seen  him  before.} 

WELCH  [the  centre  of  curiosity  and  knows  it]. 
Mr.  Stoddard?  Mr.  Paul  Stoddard? 

STODDARD.     Yes. 

WELCH.  Welch  is  my  name.  Cleveland  Welch 
of  the  Mastodon-Art  Film  Company. 

STODDARD.     I'm  very  busy  just  now. 

WELCH.     Five  minutes,  Mr.  Stoddard. 

STODDARD.  If  you'll  just  go  into  my  study. 
Jean,  will  you 

WELCH.  One  moment.  I  think  you  would 
be  interested  to  know  that  I  have  here  [takes 
a  long  envelope  from  his  coat  pocket]  a  blank 
contract  signed  by  the  Mastodon-Art  Film  presi 
dent  offering  you  five  thousand  dollars  a  week  to 
play  the  lead  in  our  great  heart-throb  film  entitled 
"Brains  and  Brawn."  A  picture  with  a  nation 
wide  appeal.  You,  Mr.  Stoddard,  have  made 
yourself  known  to  every  man,  woman,  and  child  in 
America.  You  stand  for  the  finest  type  of  young 
American  manhood.  In  this  picture*  we  shall 
show  your  struggle  for  the  rights  of  the  brain 
worker.  We  shall  show  you  in  your  boyhood  days, 
fitting  yourself  for  your  life  work.  We  shall  show 
you  as  a  student,  then  as  a  teacher.  Your  modest 
little  home,  your  struggles,  your  despair.  We  shall 


172  $1200  A  YEAR 

show  then  McClure — under  another  name,  of 
course,  but  unmistakable — McClure,  the  illiterate 
tyrant,  crushing  the 

STODDARD.     Wait! 

McCLURE.     It  won't  be  allowed.     It's  libelous! 

WELCH  [ignoring  this}.  The  message  that  you 
have  been  striving  to  give  in  your  lectures,  Mr. 
Stoddard,  reaching  a  handful  of  people  only,  will 
be  flashed  before  the  eyes  of  this  country's  millions. 
They  will  be  made  to  realize  the  danger  of  the 
present-day  disregard  of  that  most  priceless  gift — • 
brains.  Brains,  the  bulwark  of  democracy.  Brains, 
the  foundation  of  civilization.  We  will  first  show 
the  cave  man,  typifying  brute  strength.  Then, 
step  by  step 

STODDARD.    A  wonderful  idea,  Mr.  Welch. 

WELCH.  It  will  be  a  masterpiece.  A  triumph 
of  the  photo-drama.  And  five  thousand  a  week, 

Mr.  Stoddard.  After  that [Comes  swiftly  over 

to  STODDARD.]  Turn  your  face  to  the  side,  please. 
Ah!  Excellent  profile.  Strong!  Athletic?  [Feels 
STODDARD'S  arm  muscle.}  Wonderful !  Ride? 

STODDARD.     Used  to. 

WELCH.     Swim? 

STODDARD.     Yes. 

WELCH.     Drive  a  car? 

STODDARD.     Could  if  I  had  one. 

WELCH.     I  knew  it.     A  born  moving  picture 


$1200  A  YEAR  173 

star!  Mr.  Stoddard  [shakes  his  hand],  your 
fortune's  made. 

McCLURE.  No  such  picture  shall  ever  be  shown. 
I  won't  allow  it.  I'll  go  to  Washington 

WELCH.  I  want  to  say,  for  the  benefit  of  your 
little  friend  here,  that  the  scenario  of  this  picture 
has  already  been  approved  by  high  government 
officials. 

STODDARD.  I'll  be  with  you  in  a  minute,  Mr. 
Welch.  If  you'll  just  wait  in  there.  [Indicates 
door  left;  WELCH  goes.] 

WINTHROP.  Did  I  understand  that  young  man 
to  say  five  thousand  a  week!  But  no! 

JEAN.     Paul!     Think  of  it. 

McCLURE  [defeated].  Stoddard,  what  do  you 
consider  a  fair  salary  for  a  university  professor — 
of  economics,  say. 

STODDARD  [as  curtain  slowly  descends].  I  con 
sider  a  fair  salary  for  a  university  professor,  of, 
say,  economics,  to  be 

CURTAIN 


3B  COUNTRY  LIFE 
GABDEN  CITY,  N.  Y 


BOOK  is 


-  ' 


SEP151999 


RECEIVED 

J984 

CIRCUUTION  D 


U.  C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


